All About Us
by The Lost Souls of Avalon
Summary: Rewrite of "All My Best Friends Are Metalheads." A 'what if Sam was a girl' spin-off of the 2007 movie. Same ultimate destination, different road traveled to get there. R&R. Kinda Hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

_Title:_ All About Us

_Author:_ Riariti no Iru-jon

_Fandom:_ Transformers 2007 Movie-verse; AU

_Genre:_ Drama/Sci-fi

_Rating:_ T [for the time being]

_Warnings:_ Alternate universe — the typical_ if Sam was a girl_ gig; language [mostly Sam]; violence; some sexuality; crude humor; all around poor writing and unreliable updates; insane author; you get the picture

_Synopsis:_ Meet Samantha Witwicky, an ordinary teenager who's about to get her very first car. But she gets more than just a car — an adventure of a lifetime, a friendship to last beyond a lifetime, and a purpose to life as never imagined before. After all, there's nothing like big mean robots after your great-great-grandfather's glasses, is there?

_Big ass author's note:_ Okay, let it be said that you've never experienced quality theater until the power goes out and chops off about ten minutes of action sequence. [facepalm] Anyway, as it seems, my Transformers muse finally returned to duty after going AWOL for two bleeding years and I'm ready to tear apart and rebuilt the story that was once known as _All My Best Friends Are Metalheads_. As before, the title, _All About Us_, is also a song. I felt it fit better and wasn't as… immature. Personally, I'd take offense to being called a metalhead. My braces are long gone, thank you very much.

You'll have to excuse me — I'm a bit [a bit?] stressed from summer classes [a semester's worth of college algebra crammed into five weeks? Yeah, you hear me] and taking care of two sick animals [one cat, one dog, cat being the sicker of the two and a complete asshole, to boot]. I will hopefully manage to maintain this plot bunny for a substantial amount of time now that I've grown up a bit. We'll just have to cross our fingers and hope for the best.

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[**All About Us**]

by [_Riariti no Iru-jon_]

Disclaimer: As stated in the original, I don't own Transformers or any associated materials. I have not a dime to my name — college is paid with federal grants, lovely things those are. So kindly refrain for legal action; I am merely indulging in twisted fantasies concocted by my sleep-deprived and math-riddled brain.

FYI, as usual, credit for lyrics, etc., will appear at the end of each chapter, if applicable. Thanks for reading!

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[_Chapter I: A Girl's Best Friend_]

Ch. Warnings: Language; introductory chapter; AU; all that jazz

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Samantha rested her forehead on the cool surface of her desk, the fabricated voice of her father reverberating in her mind as she mulled over his deal he'd made with her several months ago — earn two thousand dollars on her own and make an _A_ on any three major assignments at school, and she'd get a car — her first car! She'd just finished doing yard work for the old married couple across the street cattycorner from them, and it was the nastiest yard she'd ever laid eyes on. But the thirty dollar reward had been worth it, because now she had the two thousand, plus a few extra she could waste on a soda or something.

The wad of two grand was safely stowed away in an envelope, which was wedged between the pages of her old bible at the bottom of the drawer in her desk, under old school books and used spirals. She'd gotten an _A+_ on a science project in which they were required to make 3-D models of an animal or plant cell using scraps of material from around their houses… She'd built a drive-through movie theater, with little plastic cars, popsicle sticks, and props from her friend's younger sister's many doll sets. Then in English class, they received test grades for memorizing and acting out scenes from any of Shakespeare's plays. The group she was in got a _B_ average, but she'd personally begged the teacher to bump it to an _A-_. And now, all she had to do was finish that damned genealogy report for history, upload it to the Mr. Hosney's online archive, and present it in front of the class on the designated date.

It took hours of sifting through cardboard boxes in the attic and basement to find her great-great-grandfather's most prized possessions—leniency on the definition of 'prized,' please. Apparently, her parents weren't overly proud of how Captain Archibald Witwicky came back from an adventure in the Arctic Circle with some loose screws and missing marbles, so anything that once belonged to him was purposefully stowed away from any prying eyes and made quite difficult to unearth. She hadn't even known her great-great-grandfather's name until she came home after school and announced she had to do a presentation on someone down their family line — parents excluded, and her grandparents were downright boring. It was actually her grandfather who suggested she do her project on her great-great-grandfather, Archibald Witwicky, an earnest but nutty explorer.

It wasn't as horrific as her parents made it out to be. Practically all famous people had some kind of mental problem after all, right? Otherwise, they wouldn't have been so successful… her parents still didn't share her enthusiasm and were horrorstruck to hear the report would be accessible on the school's website. They couldn't appreciate the effort she put into the writing of her great-great-grandfather's legacy, referencing between newspapers from the late 19th century, ancient journals, and even doctor's reports after he was institutionalized at an insane asylum, making notes of his discoveries, many overlooked, and praising his hard work now long forgotten. She'd even tracked down a descendant of one of the sled dogs that accompanied the sailors on their journey, getting lovely pictures of it to include in her report.

All this thorough work — she'd be royally pissed if she didn't get top marks, and rightfully so. Now that she thought about it, she only had the conclusion to finish writing, and with a spur of inspiration, sought the binder containing the report's rough draft. Removing herself from the desk, Sam snatched a ballpoint pen and twirled it between her fingers as her free hand dug into her backpack, which was sprawled carelessly on her bed. Transferring the pen to clutch it between her front teeth, she sunk both hands into its depths and tugged out a smudgy white binder, flipping to the last page she'd written on. She crawled onto her stomach on the navy comforter over the double-sized mattress and jotted her closing thoughts.

"_When one thinks of explorers, one's mind automatically concocts names such as Christopher Columbus, Marco Polo, and Hernando Cortes. Our books are brimming with names of scientists and discoverers, like Charles Darwin, but where do they mention the contribution of everyday men, whose names are forgotten as the years pass. Their lives are preserved only in old, yellowing newspapers and letters to family and friends, half-hearted mentions and notes. Yet they deserve just as much recognition, like my great-great-grandfather, Captain Archibald Witwicky, who braved the treacherous conditions of the Arctic Circle to make discoveries that would forever benefit mankind. Remember the men whom history has forgotten. Remember Archibald Witwicky."_

Samantha grimaced vaguely to herself, as her concluding paragraph sounded melodramatic and akin to something that belonged in a eulogy, not a report. Over-pronounced sentiment… how would Mr. Hosney take that? As mockery or too much sickly dedication to a dead man? She willed herself not to think further on it and snapped the binder shut, rolling on her back to rub her eyes with the heels of her palms. It was a Saturday evening and she'd spent it doing work outdoors or on the pile of homework that had manifested itself over the days she was ill with the stomach flu… what a boring life for a seventeen-year-old. And she needed a shower.

Sliding off her bed, she snagged the cell phone from her bedside table and flipped it open. Hopefully, with any luck, she'd be able to get a hold of her friend, Milli, so long as she wasn't out with her football-playing, jock, stick-up-the-ass boyfriend, Trent… oh, she hated that man! So confident in himself, but that's what had originally attracted Milli to him. For her sake, she wouldn't talk trash about him too much. However, he did have a sweet ride, a blue SUV of sorts… she wasn't that much into cars, though, and Trent treated his like a true prized possession. When would someone go ahead and slash his tires? Or at least break a window… perhaps she'd put some of those _expired_ eggs to good use. Oh, if only she had the guts!

She speed-dialed Milli's number and tucked her cell between her ear and her shoulder so her hands were free to grab a clean change of clothes from her dresser and fresh towels from the linens closet across from the bathroom. The phone rang once — twice — thrice — and Sam began to expect that it would keep doing so several more times before she'd be connected to voice mail, but, just as the fifth rang sounded, a voice interrupted, _"Hello?"_

"Hey, Mills," Sam murmured, comforted by the familiar timbre of her friend. She stacked the clean clothes on the counter beside the sink, then draped the towels on the handrail outside the bath and pulled back the curtain. "What's up?"

"_Nothing much."_ Which was what Sam knew was coming. It didn't matter what she'd be doing, if the world was coming to the end or whatever, when prompted she'd say the same thing without fail—nothing much. _"I was just talking to Trent."_

_That_ figured.

"Anything interesting?" Listening half-heartedly, as she really didn't care for anything to do with Trent, she turned the hot water on and from the tub faucet it spewed. She had to twist the middle of the three knobs to redirect the water to the showerhead above.

"_Yeah." _There was a short pause on the other end, as if Milli was silently debating whether to reveal this particular piece of information or not to her friend. _"Trent and some of his friends are going to dirt race Tuesday morning at 1:30, just past the lake."_

Sam suppressed a snide snort. Trent and his friends all had their own cars and it was a common competition to see whose was the fastest. Ever since a senior friend of Trent's got a new convertible after wrecking his old car, they'd been dying to see what it could do, under night cover, of course. It was only during one of these times that Trent actually didn't mind pushing his car's limit at the risk of denting, scratching, or crashing it. No doubt they'd be drunk, too, those no good miscreants. "You're not going to sneak out to watch, right?" she pressed, naturally concerned with Milli's obsessive loyalty to her boyfriend. She tested the water and adjusted it accordingly, a little on edge.

"_Uh_."

Sam sighed. It was obvious the girl was seriously considering it — where had all her common sense gone? — and it suddenly made her too sick to want to discuss it further at that time. "Never mind. I'm about to take a shower, so I'll talk to you later." She didn't wait for a reply and snapped the cell closed, flinging it onto the counter with little thought; it had been through worse. She stripped down, pondering over the consequences Milli would face if she was caught by her parents or by the police. Which would be worse? What if there was an accident? She could really care less about those stupid boys, but if Milli got hurt…

With a hand towel, she scrubbed off the thin application of foundation that hid the uneven tones of her face and neck. It was embarrassing for two-thirds of her face to be its normal apricot hue while the remaining third was slightly darker. No one really had an answer for it and the doctors labeled it a dermatological anomaly, triggered by puberty or hormonal imbalances [1]. _Bullshit_. And it wasn't as though she was vain, either, she just didn't want the morbidly fascinated stares that were bound to follow her if she showed up to school looking like only half of her got a tan — it had happened once and she swore it wouldn't ever again; thankfully, middle school students were well known for their short attention spans and would never be lacking in the field of rumors and stories, Robert's tongue ring, for example, and speculation that Nelly was engaged to some withered millionaire, and all that kind of shit. _Knock it off,_ she mentally berated herself. _No one's going to find out. God, not even Milli knows…_ Her shame, bared for only her reflection to see. She just wanted to be normal, damn it!

She stepped into the tub, tugged the curtain shut, and put her head into the path of the torrent, letting the water jettison all worries from every fiber in her body. All her troubles, down the drain. If it only really did work that way, no one would need to spend hours with a therapist, they could just take a nice, long and hot shower. Though water bills would skyrocket. Wallets suffered either way, so which would be the better loss? The insurance or utility companies? She smirked to herself at the thought of those arrogant, over-charging insurance companies going out of business when no one needed help paying their medical bills because they took a _shower_.

She shampooed her hair, having to fight her fingers through the tight curls. She seriously considered chopping it off at some point; it would eliminate a good forty-five agonizing minutes in the morning as she struggled to brush it out and do something decent with it. She piled the mane atop her head as she worked the shampoo in and thought no more over it, luring her mind into blissful oblivion as she finished her shower, simply reveling in the water to her heart's content.

After showering, she ate an early dinner instead of waiting up with her parents and turned in by 8 o'clock. Drawing the blinds to the window, she powered down her computer and moved unwanted things off her bed, without thought to where they landed. She turned off the overhead light and crawled under the sheets, switching off the lamp on the bedside table, and got comfortable, tucking in the quilt up to her chin and around her tightly in something akin to a cocoon. It had been a long day, she mused, and she was rightfully tired. It didn't take her longer than ten minutes to drift off into a deep slumber.

Sunday was boring, as it usually was. She was awakened early by their two dogs — a Chihuahua named Mojo and Mojo's complete opposite, Mace [2], a rescued Siberian Husky and German Shepherd crossbreed. She could only imagine what people thought of her family when they saw the daughter walking a puny Chihuahua and large rescued dog side by side. This day, after evening out her skin color, she donned rollerblades and allowed the two energetic dogs to pull her — well, Mace did the majority of the pulling, and was eager to do so. After a few blocks, Mojo was hopping on her in an attempt to get carried the rest of the way, completely defeating the purpose of a walk, although by the point it was halfway over, she was rolling alongside Mace and not hitching a free ride from the beast.

On her way back, she stopped and chatted with a ten-year-old African American, who wanted a dog, but his parents wouldn't let him. "Mum's allergic," the boy said solemnly, sitting in the grass of the front lawn. The longing gaze focused on Mojo and Mace pulled ruthlessly at her heartstrings and she surrendered to the compassion she felt for the lonely boy.

Sam sat beside him and the two dogs followed suit, Mojo practically bouncing in his lap to lick his face while Mace took a seat next to his human, his sides expanding and contracting with each breath, aloof to everything except her. The little boy seemed to forget his mother's predicament and played enthusiastically with the Chihuahua, who would scurry on his small legs after the boy wherever he went. After a bit, Mace warmed up to the child and joined in, his long pink tongue lolling out of his mouth as he wriggled on his back for some hearty belly rubbing.

They had to leave, however, when his mother came outside after hearing the commotion of the boy's delightful squeals, Mace's barks, Mojo's yips, and her own cheery laughs. Though the boy was chided by his mother, a grin lingered on his face and he waved to Sam and her dogs, bidding them goodbye as he was ushered inside. Gathering the leashes, Sam led her two charges back, though not after Mojo did a fair amount of marking and Mace took a hearty dump in someone's flower garden by the sidewalk, after which they fled with as much haste as could be mustered.

She braked against the block on the heels of her skates, turning into the driveway and rolling to the path winding through the manicured lawn and to the front porch. She plopped on the steps and undid the straps on her skates before removing her helmet, elbow and knee pads, and wrist guards, all of which she gathered into her arms and did an impressive balancing act to get the door open. Mojo bounded forward but when given a wait command, Mace let her through ahead of him.

She dumped the skates and accessories at the first convenient spot she could find, then took the leash and harness off Mace, having to scour the house for Mojo to remove his. She smiled at her parents, who were awake and sipping coffee in the living room. "Morning," she chirped, before catching the Chihuahua.

Judy Witwicky regarded her daughter with sleepy eyes, her cup of coffee having not yet delivered all the caffeine she needed to give her a much needed morning boost. "Good morning, sweetie," she yawned and patted the cushion between her and Ron. "Thanks for walking the dogs."

Sam took the invitation and wedged herself between her parents, Mojo clambering over them. The news was playing on the television, but nothing much was worth listening to. She leaned her head on her mother's shoulder and stifled a yawn. "Pancakes sound good for breakfast?" she asked.

Her father gave her a toothy smile. "Well, so long as your mom isn't making it."

At her left, she felt her mother chuckle. Mrs. Witwicky could prepare fine meals for lunch and dinner, that was true, but she'd never quite mastered the art of cooking breakfast. It wasn't hard to do, and maybe that was the problem. It was too easy a task that her mom always overdid it, put too much effort in it.

Giving her parents each a kiss on the cheek, she got back up and forged into the kitchen to wash her hands and begin pulling things from the cabinets. If there was one thing she could do it was multitasking at breakfast. She retrieved the pancake mix, a large bowl, a hot plate, two skillets, and several spatulas. She'd make the pancakes on the hot plate, eggs in a skillet, over-medium, bacon in the other skillet, and bread in the toaster, and everything was made without a hitch—a stack of pancakes to be placed in the middle of the table with a bottle of syrup and stick of butter; toast with mayo spread over it, cheese, and egg to make an open-faced sandwich; crisp bacon on a platter; and three glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.

"I think maybe I should start charging a fee for breakfast," she teased as they joined each other at the dining table and dug in, both dogs close by and hoping for a scrap of food to fall onto the floor by accident.

"I paid for the ingredients, though," came the good-natured rebuttal from her dad after swallowing a bite of pancakes. "And your mother bought the kitchenware."

"And I put in the effort to make you a marvelous meal. I should at least get a tip."

"Have you got the money for the car?" her mother abruptly asked, changing subject matter swiftly.

"Yup, all two thousand dollars," said Sam, before adding, "And I'll upload my report today so it'll be cleared for presentation tomorrow in Mr. Hosney's class. If he gives me an A can we look at the dealers after school?" Her hazel eyes peered inquisitively at her father, who looked thoughtful as if musing over her request.

Finally, after several long minutes of deep consideration, he responded with an affirmative, "I suppose we could do that." So they'd go visit every used car dealer in Tranquility, Nevada.

Sam beamed and no longer complained about the under-appreciation she received from cooking breakfast, deeming it suitable reimbursement for her hard work.

Samantha Witwicky was proud of herself as she gingerly packed away the old gadgets that had accompanied her great-great-grandfather on his voyage to the Arctic Circle. Her presentation had gone flawlessly and Mr. Hosney was pleased with the report she'd archived on the school's website the previous day — she personally thought it was the multimedia she incorporated into it, like pictures she'd taken of the ancient map Captain Witwicky used, a compass, even his cracked glasses, which showed bizarre fractures in the oculars. In the presentation, she had given her history class a closer view of the artifacts while reciting the importance her great-great-grandfather was in the late 19th century. She had at least had been successful in holding their attention the majority of the time, while other presentations were rather bland and she'd even been tempted to doze off.

Milli bid farewell to her boyfriend to wait for her at the door, falling into step beside her. "Nice project," she commented, nodding at the grade sheet, which flaunted a bold letter _A_ on it.

"Better than most of the others, at least," Sam said, grinning at her accomplishment, as if it were a major feat. "And Dad's going to take me to look at cars once I show him this." She waved the paper in her hand. "Gosh, I've been waiting for this moment for a long time," she reminisced. As they stopped at their lockers, Sam glanced sideways at her friend and lowered her voice. "Please tell me that you're not going to that stupid street race tomorrow morning," she pled, a worried grimace working its way on her face to replace the now faded smile.

Milli fidgeted with the combination lock and the look in her eyes were unmistakable. Trent had pulled some sort of manipulative guilt trip scheme to coerce her into going with him. She didn't answer and hid her face behind her auburn hair, quickly exchanging books from her locker to her backpack.

"Mills," Sam declared, grabbing her arm to forcefully turn her and look at her. "He's not worth it. Not Trent, of all people! Someone could get hurt and if the police catch you…" She trailed off into grudging silence when Milli shook her head and looked up at her defiantly.

"You're not my mother, Samantha," she enunciated bitterly with new resolution. She wormed her arm free and slammed the locker door shut. "I'll go with Trent if I want to. You, of all people, can't stop me." She left Sam by the lockers as she stormed off, flinging her backpack over her shoulders and exiting the school as fast as her feet could carry her.

Sam watched, dumbstruck at the sudden outburst and ears ringing from the snarl that Milli spoke with, and felt the back of her head clunk heavily against the locker door. Milli knew she didn't like Trent, thought he was lower than scum at best, and accepted it. She knew that Sam only had her best interests at heart, so why did she turn on her like that? Why wasn't she seeing reason? Why couldn't she just take the advice for once and appreciate why her parents didn't give her extra privileges, because they loved her so much. Milli, always a sweet girl, good girl. Never broke the rules, never thought of disobeying her parents' wishes, and now she was going to sneak out to meet her boyfriend with a lot of stoned guys, and — what if she got hurt? What if she got caught?

"Dear God," she murmured, shaking herself free and making a beeline for the doors. Suddenly the _A _on her genealogy report seemed trivial and the excitement of her own car was siphoned out of her by the monstrous claw known as foreboding in her chest, threatening to rip her from the inside out.

She was hardly aware she'd walked out the school and across the grounds to meet her father in his green convertible, tossed her backpack into the seat behind her, and climbed into the passenger side until her father's voice asked, "How was your day?" Which didn't apply to her day, just more along the lines of, "What did you make on your project?"

She wordlessly handed him the paper, which was wrinkled from her anxious clenching and unclenching of her hands. He eyed it, nodded at the grade, and threw the car into gear. "All right, I had a specific place in mind to stop at first…"

Sam barely listened as they went from car dealer to car dealer, with little reaction from her when they examined used car after used car — you didn't get a nice-looking car for four thousand dollars, naturally, and just because she was his only daughter didn't make her any more special. They drove out of the third lot and Sam thought they were heading in the general direction of home, until they pulled into a Porsche dealer. Mr. Witwicky stole a glance at his daughter, hoping perhaps that a glimpse of something more expensive than what they saw previously might perk her, not that he'd be getting her a Porsche, just to see if she'd cheer up, say something, anything.

But she didn't.

"Last stop then," he sighed and turned into a shop titled Bolivia's. The cars out on display showed wear, as all the others did and he found a parking spot so they could take a look around. He had to remind her to get out of the car, but was relieved when she appeared to lighten up once they started to walk. He thought he caught a glimpse of a small smile as his daughter's eyes trailed towards the clown holding an advertisement sign, looking like he'd have a heat stroke at any minute.

"'ey!" came a loud declare from the man who evidently ran the place. He was black and a little beefy, wearing a Hawaiian print tee, khaki shorts, and a hat that was strikingly similar to a bucket; his hands were sweaty, they discovered, after shaking, wide smile full of sparkling white teeth. "Welcome to Bolivia's, like the country, but without the runs." If that was their slogan, no wonder the lot seemed packed with cars that hadn't been touched in forever. Who'd want to touch anything there after that sort of introduction?

When they got into better speaking range, the dark man beamed at her, seemingly oblivious to that fact her father was _right there_. "'Ey, sweet cheeks, an' how may I help a lovely lady such as yourself?"

She barely withheld a snort as the man gave what was supposed to be a saucy wink. Though it was funny to her, her father didn't look at all amused. Before she could stop him, the Witwicky patron had him by the collar and looked just about ready to spit nails. "Okay, listen up, that's my daughter you're talking to and she's here for her first car, nothing else, so back off before I call the cops on your filthy child-molesting paws—"

She loved her dad, truly she did. It was a shame he was still in denial of the little fact that she was growing up and would be legal in under a year. It would only be endearing for so long, after all.

"'ey, 'ey! I didn't mean anything," he protested, his accent more pronounced in his concern. His eyes were bulging and he'd begun to sweat a little, but his sincere surprise was telling that he really meant nothing by it. "Jus' working the crowd an' all, you know?"

Stifling a guilty grin of amusement, Sam nudged her father and stage whispered, "Let the poor man go, Dad, you're making a scene." As if shocked, Mr. Witwicky released the dealer, looking torn between sheepish and justified for his hasty actions. He coughed in his fist and glanced away, a pointed glare from his daughter egging him to apologize finally getting him to utter, "_Sorry,"_ under his breath.

"Ah, anyways, as I was saying, it's her first car," Ron mumbled, not meeting her mildly accusing eyes, because, _damn_, but she knew how to lay it on thick. The puppy dog look didn't help either, as if she'd been kicked. "—First car, yeah."

The man was mutedly delighted, even more so relieved, and peered at her with renewed calm, going into salesman mode without missing a beat. "Her first car, eh? Well, you came to the right place. Uncle Bobby B., ma'am."

"Sam," she automatically said, the honorary not going unnoticed, and followed him through the lot as he introduced the cars in his lot. She half-listened thoughtfully, allowing herself the independence of taking her own look at the cars. She wondered how many of them would give out only a quarter of a mile after driving from the lot. They walked to the right in front of an old, faded yellow Volkswagen beetle and she almost stopped to look closer — until, that is…

"What's this one?" she inquired, stopping in front of a yellow car to put a hand on the hood. She couldn't help but feel something different about it, and without waiting for a response, she went to the driver's side, pulled the door open and slid inside. A funny little disco ball ornament hung from the rear view mirror along with a 'bee-otch' bumblebee air freshener, which made her wonder what on _Earth_ the previous owner was taking when they decorated it.

A look of confusion swept over Bobby B.'s face and he muttered something about not seeing the car before in his lot, but after a good look at it, was able to give a rather accurate description. "Err, '76 Chevrolet Camaro, custom paint job, looks in good condition… I'd say about five thousand."

"Five thousand?" her father echoed. They'd already decided not to spend more than four thousand on a car.

"The paint's faded, though," Sam piped in, not ready to relinquish her interest in the yellow Camaro with its black racing stripes. She leaned back in the seat and gripped the steering wheel; it felt natural in the car. "And what assurance do we have it won't break down half way home?" Of course, she didn't actually think it would break down.

Bobby B. was indignant. "Are you implyin' I'm cheap? I don't sell busted cars, little girl, now get out of the Camaro." He gestured wildly.

Sam glowered and for a moment, considered refusing… the key was already in the car, in the ignition, but she really didn't want the fellow to call the cops or anything. She grabbed for the door handle, but…

"What'cha waitin' fo'?" The man was getting impatient, considering his accent, and probably suspected she was playing games, but the door _was_ jammed and it didn't matter how she jiggled the handle, it wouldn't budge… "Well?"

"It's stuck," she pointed out lamely, exaggerating her effort to get the door open to show she wasn't joking. She checked to see if it was locked, but it wasn't… it was just stuck. "See? I can't get it open!"

From the outside, both her father and Bobby B. took turns trying to pry the door open, but it wouldn't give, and she felt like they took nearly twenty minutes arguing over the best way to get her out. She chewed her bottom lip anxiously, one hand instinctively still clutching the steering wheel as they tried the passenger's door, but still to no avail.

"Climb out the window," Bobby B. finally settled. At her bemused expression, he threw his hands up and muttered something she couldn't understand.

"Climb out the window, Samantha," Ron Witwicky said, as if giving her permission that it was okay.

She shot him a venomous look, silently expressing her incredulity at the completely undignified approach, before reluctantly acquiescing. She pondered the best way to go about climbing out the window, purposefully stalling because she _really_ didn't want to get out. So it came down to this: head first or feet first? Head first would risk a free ride to the asphalt and possible brain damage. Feet first sounded safer…

Before she had to attempt it though, the door independently swung open in vigor, slamming into Bobby B. with such force that it nearly knocked him over. "Err… sorry," Sam mumbled, not really sorry at all but feeling obligated to say it anyway. "I guess it came unstuck…?" Lame though it was, that was the most reasonable explanation, though she didn't know exactly how it opened… she hadn't even touched the door handle, but at least she didn't have to climb out.

Bobby B. was momentarily shaken, but recovered in record time, brushing himself off and urging them back to the yellow Volkswagen. "But if you like yellow, I'd personally recommend this one. Reliable, a little small, but it'll get you where you need to go…"

"I like the Camaro," she stubbornly declared to both the dealer and her father, chin up in deviance.

And then something odd happened, because they could just barely hear the static of the radio inside the Camaro sifting through different channels, and the volume independently increased, until the words were crisply clear:

"—_I'm not about to take no for an answer, no_

_If I tell you I can't I'm still gonna go_

_I did it all by myself and I found_

_I found my way around it"_

Sam clapped a hand over her mouth to hide the smile fighting its way onto her face. A quick glance at her father and the car dealer almost undid her as she blinked back mirthful tears. Her father looked as if a barrage of little green men had waltzed out of the car and begun strip dancing to salsa. _That_ particular imagery startled a choked laugh from her and she was grateful the malfunctioning radio had the forethought to crank the music so her laughter would be easily drowned out.

"_Get me what I want_

_Everything I don't got_

_Get me what I want_

'_Cause I'm a big shot"_

"_So give me what I want_

_I always get what I want_

_You don't want to see me red_

_If I don't get what I want_

_That's not what you want"_

It was a little ridiculous, she decided. Bobby B. was too busy gawking with the likeness of a fish out of water to unfreeze himself and turn the damn thing off. _Come on, surely this isn't too unusual. You do sell old, used cars that aren't known for their top quality. Get a grip!_ Tapping her foot absently to the beat, she counted in her head, unable to stop a wave of irrational affection for the flawed Camaro. Inanimate though it was, it somehow managed to brighten her day. Would it be too weird to hug it?

"_It's not too lovely_

_It could start to get ugly_

_It really bugs me_

_If I don't get my way—"_

In a clumsy rage, Bobby B. managed to snap out of his trance to take action, _finally_, and scrambled to reach his hand through the window and switch off the radio, muttering to himself about a shortage in the wiring. He was obviously becoming increasingly frustrated with them and the Camaro itself. Not that Sam cared; she wanted this car, damn it!

"See? Five thousand for this car with a messed up radio? That's extortion!"

Bobby B. sniffed in her direction with obvious distaste to her declaration. "Uh-uh, I don' think so, missy. Now the _Volkswagen_, as I was sayin'—"

As quick as it had been switched off, the radio burst to life again, but this time the noise it emitted was awful and shrill and mechanical, like grinding metal, and just as they clapped hands over their ears to shield themselves, glass was shattering with tremendous force. Sam felt a shard embed itself in her shoulder and Bobby B. was showered by fragments from the Volkswagen. Then it fell indifferently silent and still. As they looked around, glass was everywhere, broken, shattered, except the Camaro…

Visibly shaken, Bobby B. surveyed the damage with a countenance of horror, and possibly even fear. He couldn't explain it. None of them could.

He spun about to face Mr. Witwicky and his daughter, four fingers raised on a trembling hand. "Four thousand!" he exclaimed frantically, eager to get the demonic metalwork out of his lot. When they offered to help clean the mess, he quickly denied them, and forget the paperwork, he wanted them gone as soon as he could sweep a path clear from the Camaro out of the lot and they coughed up the cash.

Sam struggled to hide a triumphant grin as she took the driver's seat, the doors showing no resistance to her. She could still see Bobby B's expression of terror as he watched her drive out of the lot behind her dad, bug-eyed and shaky. It was a warm feeling in her stomach, like she'd gotten something that was worth much more than what it was actually paid for. Her car. Her car. She grinned openly and wondered what Milli's reaction would be — of course, it wasn't something fancy like what Trent had — oh, wait… Milli and Trent… She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and banned any further thought of her best friend and her best friend's boyfriend. This was her proud moment and she wouldn't let them spoil it.

Weirdly enough, the striped Camaro felt decidedly like home, worn seats warm and molding to her shape, engine thrumming like a living pulse underneath her. She was already attached to the hunk of metal and couldn't resist trailing a hand over the dashboard at a stoplight. She wondered momentarily at the lack of dust, her mind traveling back to the mystified look on Bobby B.'s face when she voiced her interest in the Camaro, as if he'd never seen it before in his life. She shook her head; that was nonsense, her brain over thinking the small details that were just that — small, insignificant. _Get over it, Sam, it was just your imagination, as usual._

It was closer to sundown than she expected when they drove up to the Witwicky abode. However, Sam's blood was pumping with adrenaline and she was nowhere close to chilling. With a renewed bounce in her step, she fetched several rags and a sponge, as well as cleaner and polish — she wanted to give her new car a good scrub, to rid it of any grime and dust, make it shine with pride, no matter how silly it sounded. It was actually the most fun she'd had when cleaning up anything.

Several times her parents came out to remind her there was dinner waiting, only to be waved off, so they'd watch her wield the water hose, wondering to themselves how many times she'd gone over the car in the past hour. At least twice, but it didn't stop there.

"Help me check the tires!" she cried to her father.

He barely gave them a glance. "The tires are fine."

"Check them anyway!"

He didn't dare argue when he met her adamant gaze. One never argued with a Witwicky and got out of it easy.

* * *

_I Always Get What I Want_ by Avril Lavigne.

[1] In later (_much _later) chapters, the relevance will become clear.

[2] _Mace_ is named after a dog, now deceased, belonging to a high school teacher that showed me the wonders of canine companionship that ultimately led to rescuing Kya, my beloved German shepherd mix. May he rest in peace. [heart]

_Riariti no Iru-jon_


	2. Chapter 2

_Title: _All About Us

_Author:_ Riariti no Iru-jon

_Fandom:_ Transformers 2007 Movie-verse; AU

_Genre:_ Drama/Sci-fi

_Rating: _T [for the time being]

_Warnings:_ Alternate universe; language [mostly Sam]; violence; some sexuality; crude humor; all around poor writing and unreliable updates; insane author; you get the picture

_Synopsis:_ Meet Samantha Witwicky, an ordinary teenager who's about to get her very first car. But she gets more than just a car — an adventure of a lifetime, a friendship to last beyond a lifetime, and a purpose to life as never imagined before. After all, there's nothing like big mean robots after your great-great-grandfather's glasses, is there?

* * *

[**All About Us**]

by [_Riariti no Iru-jon_]

Disclaimer: As stated in the original, I don't own Transformers or any associated materials. I have not a dime to my name — college is paid with federal grants, lovely things those are. So kindly refrain for legal action; I am merely indulging in twisted fantasies concocted by my sleep-deprived and math-riddled brain.

FYI, as usual, credit for lyrics, etc., will appear at the end of each chapter, if applicable. Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Recap:**

_**'Lo, my name's Samantha Witwicky. I'm your average teenage girl — sarcastic, a little hormonal, but overall rather agreeable. My life has officially hit the accelerator with my first — **_**first — **_**car. I'll be frank, the car itself is a little odd, but, you know what they say: birds of a feather flock together. So this is my first taste of freedom outside the cocoons of parental security and I'm **_**psyched**_**. I just wish my friend, Milli, would exercise some **_**common sense **_**before she does something to get herself hurt.**_

* * *

[_Chapter II: Bleeding Out_]

Ch. Warnings: Language; character death

* * *

It was almost 2 A.M. when her cell phone began to ring and it took her almost until her voice mail picked up to wake up enough to answer it, groping in the dark for it at her bedside table. Bleary-eyed, she couldn't make out the name on the caller identification and didn't want to exert the effort to turn on the lamp. She opened it and leaned back into her pillow before answering. "'ullo?"

Instantaneously, she was assaulted by a stampede of voices and revving engines on the other end. She was awake. "Milli?"

"_Hiya, Sammy!_" came the delighted voice of her friend, their altercation after school forgotten. The slur in her words suggested the girl was drunk and or high, and in a rush, she remembered the street race Trent and his friends were hosting… the one Milli had been invited to and accepted.

"Mills, are you okay?" Sam sat up and threw back the bed covers. She was fighting through a fog of sleep in her mind and she strained to decipher the words, both in the background and from Milli.

Milli didn't seem to hear her. "_Sammy, we're having a blast! Trent brought some beer, someone else has vod…d…ka_," — a drunken giggle — "_and they're about to start a race, Sammy, you've got to get down here and see for yourself!_"

Beer and cars, the perfect ingredients of a death wish. Sam turned on the lights despite her body's complaint at being awake and began to change while still talking on the phone. "Mills, I'm going to come pick you up and drive you home, do you understand?" She wanted to talk fast, but resisted, enunciating carefully in hopes that Milli might actually make sense of anything she said.

"_You got a car! Oh, and Michael's here!_" Milli giggled like a maniac.

Sam felt her insides turn icy and churn. Michael… Michael Banes. Her crush since forever. That was low for Milli to bring up, had she been in her right mind, but she wasn't. She was drunk and she was in the company of others who were more likely than not also drunk. But she wasn't concerned for Michael, though she admitted to herself that it would be a dream come true to meet him at night somewhere and perhaps…

No. She needed to get Milli. "I'll be there soon, Mills. Just promise you won't get into someone's car before I get there!" She didn't receive an answer, however, as Milli gave a squeal and laughed and the phone was overcome by chatter all over again. She waited; perhaps Milli would recover her phone and resume talking, but she didn't. Ending the call, she jammed her feet into her shoes, not bothering to untie them.

She frantically uttered prayers under her breath, pleading God to protect her best friend, at least until she could get her out of that place. Snatching the keys off her desk, she hurried out of her room and downstairs, trying earnestly to be quiet so not to disturb her parents. To her knowledge, they didn't stir at all… She fumbled with the house key, to unlock the front door, then lock it back when she was out on the porch. Mojo was barking; she winced.

She sprinted across the grass, not caring how much her father detested it when someone did just that. What he didn't know didn't hurt him. She had just as much trouble unlocking the car door as she did the front door that she nearly burst into tears, but finally, it worked and she fell into the seat, blinking rapidly and taking a moment to gather herself. She plunged the key into the ignition and turned it… the engine sputtered, but didn't start.

"Damn it," she hissed. It was just a coincidence… her hands were shaking so she fumbled with the ignition… that's it. She tried again. And again. And…

… all it did was sputter, and the noise echoed mockingly in her ears.

She slammed her fist into the dashboard, tried once more. It had worked just fine earlier; in fact, it had worked like a dream. But now it might've been a fucking lawn ornament from the junkyard. "Damn it! Piece of shit car, I need to go get my friend before she gets herself killed! WORK, damn it!"

A forbidden sob erupted from her throat and she leaned her forehead on the steering wheel, her mind torturously mulling over all the horrible things that could happen to Milli while she was out there. She was starting to wish that she'd just left the Camaro and agreed to buy the Volkswagen; she'd always heard foreign cars were more reliable… No matter how attractive the racing stripes had been, it seemed now it'd only go a speed of _nil_ miles per hour. And then…

Like an answered prayer, Samantha both heard and felt the soft rumble of the engine coming to life and her eyes snapped open. A chill crawled its way down her spine, but she didn't care how or why the car started, she just knew that now there was a possibility she could get to Milli. With new resolution, she wiped her eyes, a relieved, if not rather manic, smile on her face. She didn't hate her piece of shit car as much as she thought, so long as it didn't give out en route…

She backed out of driveway, squinting through a bit of exhaust that betrayed the car's true age. It cleared up, though, as soon as she was on the street. She accelerated, inwardly marveling at how fluid the car drove as it gained speed, once the damned thing got started. Had that Bobby B. guy even know what he had sold them? It felt natural, for a girl that just got her first car. Couldn't ask for much more, though, could she?

On long stretches of road, she topped the legal speed limit. With hardly anyone out at such an hour, she didn't fear being caught. Not yet at least.

She couldn't help but jump a little as the radio crackled, the tuner went crazy, and now she knew what Bobby B. had meant by '_shortage in the wiring_.' She eyed the radio, but hell, she didn't care what was playing. At least it was catchy…

"_Turn on, I see red_

_Adrenaline crash and crack my head_

_Nitro junkie, paint me dead_

_And I see red"_

"_A hundred plus through black and white_

_Warhorse, warhead_

_Fuck 'em, man, white knuckle tight_

_Through black and white"_

How appropriate, she couldn't help but muse. Maybe she had a psychic car?

"_Oh, on I burn,_

_Fuel is pumping engines,_

_Burning hard, loose and clean,_

_And on I burn, churning my direction,_

_Quench my thirst with gasoline"_

She hoped Milli would be okay… if something happened to her that morning, she'd make sure Trent got the backlash. For Trent's sake, she'd be able to get Milli home safe and sound.

"_Gimme fuel, gimme fire, gimme that which I desire!_

_Turn on beyond the bone_

_Swallow future, spit out hope_

_Burn your face upon the chrome"_

"_Take the corner, going to crash_

_Headlights (head on)_

_Headlines_

_Another junkie, lives too fast"_

"_Yeah_

_Lives way too fast, fast, fast_

_Oh"_

"_Oh_

_On I burn_

_Fuel is pumping engines,_

_Burning hard, loose and clean—"_

She was pushing eighty now, and the car transitioned smoothly, to her surprise. It was exhilarating, addictive — she didn't dare go faster, even though the Camaro handled flawlessly in high speed turns. She'd gotten a kick ass car, just with a deceptively outdated frame. Goes to show what really matters is on the inside after all.

"_So gimme fuel, gimme fire, gimme that which I desire!"_

Sam passed the lake and began to slow down as the asphalt turned to dirt. She switched off the radio, though how it had initially came on was a mystery to her. Within minutes she could see taillights, perhaps half a dozen pairs. Only when she got closer could she see the individual lights they'd brought with them to illuminate their track, dust particles visibly hovering. Otherwise, it was black. Not a good sign…

Coming to a stop, she parked, tugged out her keys, and literally sprinted out of her car to seek out her friend, ignoring mutters from the fair-sized crowd that had gathered for the event, most about her car and how lousy it looked. "Milli!"

From a handful of jocks and their concubines she saw the redhead emerge, stumbling on her feet and holding an aluminum can high in one hand. "'Ey, Sammy, you made it! T'ey're jus' about to do anudder race, since Trent said t'e last one wuzza tie…" The spew on her shirt suggested she might've already thrown up once, but went for a second drink anyways. She smelled like smoke and marijuana. In fact, the entire lot did. And the stench of alcohol was unmistakable.

"What is _that_?"

Sam found herself watching as Trent curled an arm sloppily around Milli's waist while the free one was pointing in the general direction of the Camaro. His breath reeked of booze and a goofy grin contorted on his face to emit a snicker that was anything but pleasant. She had the distinct impression that he was trying to sound condescending, but the effort was all in vain because, _really_, a drunk never put out good arguments.

Nevertheless, she scowled at his disrespect for _her_ Camaro. "It's called a car. You know, has four wheels and goes _vroom-vroom_?" Grasping Milli's nearest wrist, she tugged her away, guiding her friend to a distance so she could try and talk without interruption. She made mental notes of each stumble, counting them to know how many times she'd punch Trent when the first opportunity came. She led her to her car and let her lean against it. "Mills, let me drive you home, please," she said, taking the beer can from and pouring it out on the dirt to make a puddle of dark amber. Milli was too drunk to care and smiled with glassy eyes.

"I'm fine, really. See?" She shifted her weight to her feet as she tried to stand straight, and swayed. Sam caught her and pressed her back against the Camaro.

"You're not fine, Mills, you're dead drunk and wouldn't make it half a step without diving face first onto the ground."

Milli regarded her as if she'd grown another head, but her gaze drifted over her friend's shoulder to a figure she suddenly noticed. "'ey!" She grinned childishly and waved at the young man. "Mike, come an' take a look at Sammy's ride!"

A cold sensation washed over Sam as she realized whom exactly Milli was waving down. Michael Banes. Oh, why did Milli have to call him over?! She couldn't be distracted from her goal: getting Milli out of that place before she got hurt.

Michael was the personification of a dark beauty that had many girls fawning over him, and it was clear why. Skin tanned and freckled, flawless, large angled eyes, rich ebony hair cut to about jaw-length. He was slender, lithe, and muscular without being overbearing, dressed nice, smelled nice. Just being near him was intoxicating…

He strolled over casually, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looked so confident in himself and… he didn't seem to be drunk or high, or at least, not too much. Point for him. "Hey, Milli," he greeted with his mesmerizing velvet voice before peering at Sam, who had made herself busy scrubbing a nonexistent smudge on the car with the end of her sleeve. "How's it drive?" he asked, approaching to stand beside her and rest his hands on the top of the Camaro, completely oblivious she was smitten.

"Err…" She shifted her weight anxiously as he peeked through the windows at the interior. "F-fine, I s'pose," she stammered, lost in a haze of awe that she only half-heartedly tried to break free of.

"Looks good." He walked around to the front. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Err…" Rather timidly, she opened the driver's side door to lean in and pop the hood. When she looked back at him, he was out of sight behind the hood, immersed in examining the Camaro's engine. At least he wasn't poking fun at it like Trent would do.

Michael looked thoughtful, creasing his forehead between his eyebrows. "How much was it?"

"Four thousand… got it at a used car dealer." She hesitated before slowly rounding the Camaro to see what he saw. She stood stunned. "Whoa."

"Whoa's right." He gestured. "Whoever had this car before you really liked it fast and took good care of the engine. No grime or buildup whatsoever." He closed the hood and led the way to the driver's side. "May I?"

"Huh?"

"Drive. May I drive it," he elaborated with the utmost patience.

"Oh! Uh, sure… why not?" Sam extended the keys to him and stood back as he got in, turning the key in the ignition. The engine started up on command with a satisfactory rumble. She watched as he throttled it forward, leaving her to stand with her arms crossed in wistful longing while he got to drive _her_ Camaro around, though she'd given him permission to do so. She was hit by a surge of jealousy, but ignored it, pushing it aside to confront later. Her mind was suddenly elsewhere when she realized she couldn't see Milli. No doubt she'd flagged down Michael to distract Sam from keeping a close eye on her.

She winced; that couldn't be the case, as Milli was too inebriated for such sneaky deception. It was probably just coincidence, but that didn't quiet the unease in her stomach.

"Milli," she called out, picking up her pace as she ventured back into the masses of drunken teenagers. It was a fairly large crowd, considering. Most likely it had been something between Trent and a few of his close friends, but word spread and no one could really keep away with such promise of entertainment, especially when entertainment included girls and cars. They had both.

She bumped into a few people she recognized from around school and held short snippets of conversation with them, but she was only partly listening, eyes scouting faces for the most familiar of people, her best friend. She could hear _Get Stoned_ by Hinder playing from someone's car radio over revving engines. She spared a glance at the highlighted path, where cars were lining up. The crowd suddenly became denser as everyone moved in a single massive wave to become avid spectators, and Sam was helpless to escape.

Momentarily distracted, she caught sight of a yellow car with black racing stripes in the lineup. Her anger escalated. What was Michael _thinking_? Using her car in the race? She simmered, standing on tiptoes to give a heinous cry. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH MY CAR, YOU ASSHOLE?!" She lunged for the sidelines to try and intervene, but bodies were wedged so close together it was hard to move at all. She didn't even deny it when she stomped on several different sources of feet and did a bit of elbowing and shoving.

Sam was torn between rescuing her car or rescuing Milli, wherever the latter was. Only out of the corner of her eyes did she see a chunky boy run out to signal the start of the race by waving around his discarded shirt high up in the air. The cars rumbled with anticipation until finally he threw his shirt down in a signal to start. A roar erupted as wheels tore down the dirt road, kicking up a dusty cloud. She paid no more attention and again fought her way through the crowd; the decision had been made for her. It would be easier to get to Milli than the car.

Absently as she continued her quest, she wondered what time it was, and how long it would take for the police to realize there was a hazardous gathering. There weren't any houses along this stretch of road, though, so who was there to make a complaint? 'It's an accident just waiting to happen,' she thought, troubled.

"Hey there, cute thang—" drawled a young man who had actually noticed her efforts to squeeze through.

She wasn't going to have any of it, though. "Oh, shove off," she grumbled, giving him a firm push in the chest to remove him from her path. She hadn't necessarily meant to push hard, though, as he stumbled back in surprise, knocking into a quarterback, who slopped beer all down his front.

"Why the hell'd you do that?" the football player snarled.

"I—I didn't mean—"

She detoured around the two men just as a punch was thrown and a fight broke out. "Boys," she groaned in disgust.

The cars were returning in the same direction they'd left in, but were still some distance away. She couldn't see that far out in the dark, the many headlights too blinding to even try, but if she could, she'd have seen her Camaro and Trent's truck neck-to-neck in the lead position. She was too preoccupied as she saw the slight frame of her best friend dangerously close to the sidelines, waving hands in agitation as she talked to a girl she wasn't familiar with. It was an argument of some sort and both females were growing impatient and violent.

"MILLI!" she tried to yell over the engines of the approaching vehicles. The female without a name slapped Milli, leaving her momentarily stunned before retaliating; she grabbed the girl's collar and shook, screaming something incoherent from Sam's location.

They stumbled onto the ground, Milli leaping on Mystery girl and pummeling her face with her fists. The girl under her shrieked and threw her arms up to protect herself, but when that didn't stop the assault, scratched up at Milli's eyes, digging into her cheeks.

Milli screamed and in seconds, her hands were closing around her opponent's throat, eyes brimming with a psychotic fury brought on by intoxication and provocation. The cars were now perfectly visible and coming closer and Sam's world seemed to progressed in slow motion.

She wasn't aware that Trent was losing control of his truck, zigzagging on skidding wheels, and that her Camaro had relinquished the wheel from Michael's hands and steered on its own accord, as, in a last ditch effort, Mystery girl kicked her feet into Milli's gut and flung her back into the dirt path, where she hit her head and laid sprawled out, dazed. She was too horrified to notice the Camaro fall behind to come around Trent's truck and attempt to nudge it away to avoid her fallen friend collapsed directly in their path. Trent was too stoned to care, too high with drugs and adrenaline of a top speed race. Giving the Camaro and it's no-longer-driver the finger, he rammed them maliciously. The Camaro decelerated to avoid the brunt of the attack, its hood barely getting clipped, as the truck skidded sideways, spinning out and—

Sam sprinted forward as fast she could. Someone had already tugged Mystery girl out of the way, but had left Milli, who in her stupor could only watch as the grill of the truck advanced on her. Tires lacking traction, there was nothing to be done as it closed in, Trent visible through the windshield trying regardless to alter the direction of their momentum, but to no avail. "SOMEONE GRAB HER!" she shrieked… but what drunk teenager was going to risk their life? They all just stared in frozen, morbid fascination.

She didn't see the impact, eyes swimming in tears and dust, but she heard it and it was the most awful sound she could ever imagine. She emitted a terrible scream just as her chest constricted on itself and she felt almost as if it was she who had been hit — who had been run over. "Oh, God," she breathed, inaudible over the crowd's cries, screams, and gasps. Several voices yelled for someone to call 911, but most were watching as Trent's blue truck finally regained control just before hitting a poor spectator's car. He fell out of the driver's seat after the door opened, only to be supported by a nearby dedicated posse. Other drivers were vacating their cars in dazes to inspect the damages; Michael Banes hadn't been given much of choice. The Camaro's door flung open and he was booted by some unapparent force.

Samantha dropped on her knees beside her best friend's mangled and bloodied body. Milli had been dragged by the truck nearly ten meters, and she thought she saw the remains of an arm in the tracks left behind. She sobbed, unashamed, patting the ashen face before her, but she knew in her heart its owner wouldn't stir, and that was probably for the best, because if she did, she'd be in so much pain… clothes were torn and an imprint of a tire sat over her chest… there was another one on her right shin… she couldn't bear to examine her friend any further and instead pulled her into her lap and cradled her lovingly, barely managing to sweep trembling fingers down over her eyes to close them.

She rubbed her eyes to peer over at Trent, who was staring at the remains of his now deceased girlfriend. What was he thinking? He looked horrified, but she couldn't discern whether it was triggered by the realization of what he'd done or of what might happen to him if he were caught. His posse, made of strong and bulky classmates, took the liberty of beginning to herd out the shocked spectators. She was pretty sure she heard them murmur threats if anyone repeated of that morning's events. They were all running away… had anyone bothered to call an ambulance? The police?

It was suddenly icy cold. "C—cowards," she spat midst a fresh wave of tears. In her peripheral vision, she saw Michael, torn between leaving with his friends or coming to mourn with her, to wait for help. He was eventually pulled by someone close to him into a car. Engines were firing up and everyone was fleeing… cowards, all cowards…

It took over ten minutes before Sam was finally alone with the lifeless Milli and her Camaro, somewhere along the dirt road. She couldn't remember if she had her cell phone in the car or if she'd left them on the bedside table on accident. She feared it was the latter, but it didn't matter either way, because her body was too busy racking from her heaving sobs to be able to check, to call 911.

So many things Milli had wanted to do, and now she couldn't. Go to college, travel out of the United States, have a family, write a novel… So many unaccomplished goals and dreams… she'd kill Trent if he didn't come forward and admit what he did, ruin his life, make sure he spent a long time in jail, make sure he couldn't do the many things he wanted to do… make him sorry.

Her body ached and she moved Milli's head so she could lie down beside her, curl up around her, protect her from the elements, all alone. She wasn't aware of the blood she was getting on her by doing this, but if she were, it was unlikely she'd care.

In the distance, was that sirens she heard? Were the police and an ambulance coming? It was about time… but were they coming for Milli? Or were they responding to a different emergency, leaving Milli forgotten? A nobody? An insignificant American teen who made a mistake and paid for it with her life? Never, ever again.

Soon she was convinced the sirens were actually coming in her direction for a reason, she sighed in relief. Someone would be here soon and take Milli somewhere warm and safe… And she wasn't the only one; the Camaro could confirm they were indeed responding to a 911 call associated with Milli, but they _couldn't_ be found. If Sam was sent to jail because they thought she was the culprit, then there was no way he could protect her when the Decepticons would surely come for the glasses pictured in her genealogy report, which was featured online for all to see. A Decepticon wouldn't care about casualties while pursuing a lead to the location of the Allspark. He couldn't allow the girl, a descendent of Captain Archibald Witwicky, fall into the wrong hands.

Transforming was nothing out of the norm for Bumblebee. Though he hadn't planned to take his bipedal form so soon, to reveal himself, he wouldn't be able to get Sam away from the crime scene if he didn't. The only other person in the vicinity to witness it was dead, and chances were Sam was so distraught, she'd subconsciously repress the memory and think, if anything, it was just a bad dream when she woke up to get ready for school. She didn't look in the slightest as he shot up, car parts shifting themselves like nothing on Earth to construct a yellow and black humanoid figure.

He moved stealthily — well, as stealthily as a giant robot could be — over closer to the two humans and knelt down. It took extensive diligence to be gentle while handling fragile creatures such as humans. Sam was resistant at first when he tried to pick her up between two metallic fingers, unwilling to let go of her friend's dead body. It sent her into another fit of sobs that soon wore her out and he could then easily pry her from her hold on the corpse to gingerly put her in the palm of his robot hand. He could feel the warm tears, small as they were, dripping on his palm as she curled up in a dissociated state, where she slowly ceased crying and went emotionally and mentally numb.

He shielded her with his other hand, though there wasn't much to shield her from; it was predominantly instinct. He headed off, the police and emergency vehicles to arrive within visual range of him at any moment. As a scout, Bumblebee was good with keeping track of his surroundings. He remembered exactly how to get to the Witwicky household, though if he needed, he could consult the internet's Map Quest. The problem wasn't finding his way. It was more of getting there without being seen. He was a resourceful Autobot… he'd figure out a way. And once Sam was safe at home, he'd signal the other Autobots… it was time.

* * *

The alarm clock buzzed it's morning greeting. Groggy as ever, Sam slapped the snooze button and rolled over to bury her face into the pillow at the head of her bed. It couldn't be time to get up, could it? Felt much too early. She sighed into the cloth below her face and twisted onto her back to blink sleepily up at the ceiling. She'd had such a horrible dream… gosh, she was actually glad to be awake. It had been awful, absolutely awful. Michael driving off with her car, Milli hanging out with a drunken party, Milli getting hit by Trent's truck, Milli dying… Her eyes watered at the imagery filling her head. It had been a dream, a downright lousy one, but, nonetheless, a dream. Had to be a dream, because in it, the Camaro morphed into a great, big robot, and tore her away from Milli's dead body to return her home. Cars didn't transform. It was definitely a dream.

She was completely unaware of the day clothes she was wearing, instead of pajamas, and that the clothes she wore, she had on throughout the early hours of the morning when she drove out to meet Milli. She was oblivious to the stains of blood and the dirt that coated her clothing and her own body. She just knew she was sweaty and wanted to change.

Sam grabbed a pair of khaki cargo pants and a lavender spaghetti-strap shirt, heading for the shower. Her dirty clothes were discarded carelessly into the laundry hamper without a second thought. She took the majority of her shower with her eyes closed, still half asleep and therefore noticed nothing of the grit and blood that washed free from her body. Far too tired to notice, to care… to realize what had happened.

She left the bathroom with her honey-bronzed hair wrapped up in a towel. The shower had helped restore her energy and she hopped down the flight of stairs to the living room, where her parents were huddling on the couch with troubled faces. "Good morning," she chirped, expecting a cheerful welcome that didn't come. She examined her parents; they were shocked by something and her mother's eyes were welling with tears. "Oh, gosh. Mum, what's wrong?" She crawled onto the couch beside her mother and gave her a one-armed hug.

Judy Witwicky turned her ghastly face to her daughter and clasped both her hands. "Oh, honey… I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

Sam was confused. "What? There's nothing to be sorry about." She looked from her dad to her mom, and back again several times. There was something they knew and they were having trouble coming out and telling her. "Mum, what's going on?"

Mrs. Witwicky instead began to sob and leaned into her husband's chest. Sam looked at her father quizzically. "Dad?"

He swallowed hard and gave a wet snort, blinking rapidly. "Samantha…" he began awkwardly. "There's… there's been an accident."

"Oh my… I'm really sorry to hear that." She chewed on her bottom lip. Why was she all of a sudden feeling anxious? Was it someone she knew?

"It… it was on the morning news broadcast and the local newspaper…" Her dad's voice cracked, so unlike his typical self. What the hell happened? Why were they hesitating to tell her who it was?

"C'mon, just tell me… I'm a big girl, I can handle it," she urged. "Was it someone at school?"

Her parents looked doubtful and both seemed to not be able to find their voices.

Sam's anxiety was replaced with impatience. "Come out with it already!" she exclaimed, jumping out of her seat to stand above them and begin to pace. "Mom! Dad!"

"Oh, God…" her mother cried. "I'm so sorry, Sam, I'm so sorry…"

"TELL ME!" Her voice became shrill as she came to a stop and she was suddenly scared to hear what came next.

"It's… oh, my God, how do I say this? … Oh, Sammy, I'm sorry — it's Milli." Unable to continue any further, her mother shoved the newspaper into her hands for her to read herself.

It was Milli? Puzzled, numb, Sam unfolded the paper and scoped the articles for any clue to what was going on. She flipped it back to the front page and there it was, staring her straight in the face: _Teenage girl found dead near lake; Illegal activities suspected_. She felt a chill run down her spine and she found herself glued in place, eyes sweeping the script to absorb all the information, scrutinize it, rake it for clues that insisted it wasn't real. But it was and as she read further through the article, she found a single name that made her heart leap into her throat.

"Milli," she echoed the name hoarsely. "No… not Milli! Oh, my God, NO!" Her voice escalated in intensity and she flung the newspaper aside. Climbing back up the stairs and to her room to grab her cell phone so she could call her friend. The phone rang as she held it up to her ear with shaking hands. Three rings, no one had answered. And with each passing ring, the further her stomach sank in horrible realization.

"No…" The phone dropped from her hands, fingers unable to continuing grasping it. She meant to sit on her bed, but it wasn't what was under her at the time and she was suddenly sapped of all mobility, so she flopped onto the floor instead beside her cell. She buried her face in her hands, trembling like a leaf in the wind. "No no no no nonononono…"

She was oblivious to her parents' presence as they joined her in her room, trying with all their might to comfort her, to console her, to soothe away the pain… but no mortal could possibly do that.

It was real. It had happened. All of it. The dream hadn't been a dream at all, but a memory, a dreadful memory. Trent had killed Milli and her car… it couldn't have transformed. That was impossible, unrealistic. Perhaps her mind had concocted it midst raging emotions… yeah…

As she crawled back into bed, she heard her parents' voices in the distance, saying they were sorry and that they weren't going to make her go to school if she felt this bad. The majority of their words held little to no meaning to her and she curled up tight under the covers until they finally retreated and left her alone. Her body ached all over as sorrow flooded through her entire being, crying tears like a leaky fountain. She wished she had died instead of Milli… she wailed in agony and beat her fists into the bed mattress.

"Why…" Sam continued sobbing, until perhaps half an hour later, she cried herself into a restless slumber.

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Sam sunk in and out of a tear-filled sleep, which was interrupted regularly by crying fits from visions of Milli's death searing through her dreams. There wasn't a moment that her pillow was completely dried of tears. And at lunch, her mom brought up a tray of food that she barely touched, before resuming her grieving. Several times in brief spurs of hope, she'd fetch her phone and send a text message to Milli, though deep down, she knew she wouldn't get a reply. She then cried again.

She finally removed herself from her bed to carry the tray down to the kitchen. Disposing of the remains, she rinsed the utensils to be placed in the dishwasher. A note on the fridge informed her that her mom had gone to run some errands and would be back in a few hours. She absently traced the doodle of a smiling face at the end of the note, then took a can of soda and retreated into the living room to watch television. She curled up on the sofa and grabbed the remote off the coffee table, purposefully evading news channels, eventually settling for an old horror film that barely held her attention anyway.

Ten minutes into the show and the phone rang. Sam groaned — it was just getting good — but left the warm space on the sofa to answer. Caller I.D. came up blank and she picked up the receiver. "Witwicky residence, how may I help you?" she recited monotonously.

There was nothing but a calm silence on the other end.

"Hello?" she tried again. The lack of response was quickly pissing her off. This was a complete waste of time… She waited a few seconds. Nothing. "Say something or I'll hang up."

With a noise of anger, she slammed the phone back into the cradle and stalked to the living room. As she passed a window, she glimpsed a police car parked across and down the street out front, facing towards the house. Odd. Shaking her head in dismissal, she plopped down and tried to focus on the movie. She'd missed something vital to the storyline however; there was no point trying to follow it now… so she flipped channels again.

When nothing proved worthy of watching, she hesitantly risked a peek at a local news station. A commercial… but then, wait — what was this? An update on breaking news? She'd obviously missed something. According to this, soldiers previously thought lost in a camp in Qatar had been recovered and brought back to the States. Something about the U.S. military mainframe being hacked by possible terrorists. '_Great, just what the world needs… another crisis. How much longer till we just blow each other up?_'

She turned off the T.V. and trooped back upstairs to her room. She was weary, though she'd been in bed all day. Was this how depression felt? She couldn't remember a time when she felt this bad. At times she was pessimistic, but never depressed.

With one last detour, she swung by the bathroom and stared at her haggard face. In her misery, the disfigurements were even more pronounced, so different from Milli's perfect complexion. Her eyes sluggishly followed the expanse of skin that went over her shoulder and disappeared under her shirt. _So ugly_. Feeling disgusted with herself, she put on a long-sleeved shirt and smeared foundation over her flaws until she looked as she normally did, bar the completely lifeless glaze over her hazel eyes. She removed herself from the presence of her despicable reflection, intent to mope some more on other issues, such as the _death_ of her _best friend_; if she ever got her hands on Trent—

And the day ticked away.

* * *

"Sam." A sharp rap on the door jerked her out of slumber again and she slowly pushed herself up. The door opened and revealed her father's stubbly and tanned face. "Someone's on the front porch and wants to talk to you. Think you come down for a bit?"

She rubbed her face and glanced at the clock. School had let out forty-five minutes earlier. A sympathetic peer? She hoped not. Even worse, the police. Perhaps someone had let slip she'd been at the crime scene, and was also a close friend of Milli's. She wasn't in the mood for an interrogation. So who else would bother dropping by to talk to her? Oh God, was that why the police car was parked out front? Waiting to see if she'd leave the house so they could corner her and try to weed out what had happened without the protective guidance of her parents?

No, police wouldn't do that. Even they have rules to follow. They wouldn't harass a teenager in a delicate state such as herself at this point of time.

Mace gave an alarming bark, hackles raised as he stood rigid at the door, ready to lunge if anyone tried to get in. "Good boy," she murmured, giving him a hearty scratch down his spine before nudging him away so she could pry open the front door and slide out without him trying to get loose. Closing it behind her, she turned to look at the visitor.

"Hey." It was Michael Banes, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans and looking sexy in a black muscle shirt under a denim jacket. "I wanted to check on you after…" He trailed off and had the decency to make eye contact. "Well, you know."

It took all her self control not to gawk and she shifted her weight anxiously from one foot to the other. Never before had he talked to her, excluding early that morning. On a regular basis, she could've been nonexistent. "Err, yeah… uh. How'd you get this address?"

His smile was slight, but evident on his tanned features. It held a warmness she'd never witnessed before. "School directory." However, he wasn't letting the focus of his meeting stray. "Listen, about Milli—"

She cringed, reality crashing back down around her with a vengeance. "Don't."

"It's hard, I can understand that but—"

She cut him off. "Is Trent going to at least turn himself in?"

Michael fell silence and abruptly looked regretful. "Trent? No… he doesn't want to lose the scholarships to get him into college and play football."

Sam snorted and crossed her arms over her chest, haughtily. "Son of a bitch." Visibly fuming, she began to pace back and forth, her arms unconsciously shifting to hug herself. She wanted to fall into a gory fantasy of all the things she could do to him, to make him sorry, to make him turn himself in. Milli's death needed to be avenged…

"This is hard for Trent, too. He killed his girlfriend — it was an accident. Have you any idea what he's going through?" he asked calmly.

"If you came here to defend Trent, then forget it. Get out of here." She fought the instinctive urge to curl her upper lip in a snarl.

"No. No, that's not why I'm here." He looked sincerely apologetic for making a stand on Trent's behalf, then regained an indifferent mask. He watched her from behind a few wisps of dark hair.

"Then why are you?"

"Can we walk?" Michael removed a hand from his pocket to gesture at the sidewalk.

"I s'pose…"

It was a casual stroll down the street. Samantha busied herself by studying the cracks in the concrete walkway, feeling strangely exposed of her emotions and thoughts. Only the steady pat-pat of their shoes on the ground, the occasional rustle of clothing, and perhaps even a sigh. The silence was awkward; Sam never imagined Michael to lack the words to say. At school, he'd seemed perfectly outgoing, especially around his friends. In class, he was observant and a listener. If he ever said anything then, it was precise and thought out to the last syllable. Suave, even.

"What'd I miss at school?" she forced herself to speak. Did he even know they shared the same classes? She had a tendency to be invisible when around groups of people.

"Nothing worth repeating." He grinned with full, seductive lips.

Another lapse of silence and they took a turn.

"So, why'd you come? Felt sorry for me? Pitied me?" Sam was struggling inwardly, trying to decipher the meaning of this unexpected visit. Michael Banes was the last person she could imagine winding up on her front porch, requesting to speak with her. Perhaps this was a dream? Her subconscious at work?

"Actually," he hesitated, though just momentarily. He was debating how to say what was one his mind, but the best way was always just to come out with it. "I want to talk about your car."

Sam stopped in her tracks at a sensation of a foot being thrust into her gut. "My car?" She felt her innards begin to stew. He'd come all this way and requested her presence from the comfort of her room to talk about her _car_? What the hell was wrong with him?

"I know this sounds completely ludicrous but…" Michael stepped in front of her to stop her from walking any further while turning to stare her in the eyes. "Your car tried to prevent Trent from hitting Milli."

Samantha stared as she processed this odd detail coming from her crush. Tears started to prickle behind her eyes and she released a shrill bark-like laugh, frantically shaking her head. "You're enjoying th-this… aren't you," she stammered out, her arms swinging at her sides anxiously as she tried to control the monster of rage stirring in the depths of her chest. She wanted to run, but she couldn't make her legs move. They were numb and unyielding. "M-mocking Milli's death… God, you think this is funny!!"

Fighting back a fresh torrent of tears and losing, she pushed past him, clenching and unclenching her fists at her sides as she resisted the tremendous urge to punch someone –– and regardless of her feelings, Michael was a suitable target.

Michael had expected a reaction like that and tried again, naturally composed. "I'm telling you the truth, Samantha. Your car drove itself — I had no control over it. The wheel… it was driving itself."

"Yeah, after you drove it into a stupid street race that killed my best friend!" She pivoted around on her heel, almost reluctant to show her tear-streaked face, and contemplated for the briefest moment giving him the nastiest right hook she could manage. Not too far away, she heard squealing tires, but that was no concern to her. She wanted nothing more than to make Michael feel the pain she did.

"Your car literally booted me out of the driver's seat," he stated. How could he act so indifferent?! "Your car — the Camaro… I've never seen an engine like the one it has, not in a piece of scrap, at least. I don't know how, but—"

This was a sight she never imagined before. No, not Michael, something else. A police car, lights flaring, and barreling straight at them, having evidently started from a distance judging by its speed. Sam's breath caught in her throat; this must've been what Milli felt as she saw Trent's truck swiveling towards her. They were going to be hit…

"MOVE!" Fight or flight response had kicked in just in time and she grabbed Michael by his shirt, throwing him forcefully out of the way and onto the ground and just barely dodging herself. The police car's engine roared and she watched in shaky horror as it reversed. It occurred to her almost instantly — there was no one in the driver's seat.

"Shit." She didn't look to see if Michael had gotten up, though he had, and instead did the most logical thing when an apparently homicidal vehicle was trying to run you down — get somewhere that it couldn't get.

If there was one thing Samantha Jamie Witwicky was good at, it was running — well, at least, she used to be good at it. She'd been in track for as long as she could remember, until a stupid accident left her with a broken ankle and sprained foot, and the recovery had been a tricky one with complications that made her swear off even the idea of track. Running had once been a passion, something she enjoyed. Now running was the best plan she had at staying alive. Never thought her life would depend on how fast she could run… until then.

She sprinted down the sidewalk, arms pumping, and feeling a sensation of exhilaration she hadn't felt in a long time, despite the criticality of needing to run as fast as she could. She risked a glance backwards and her fears were confirmed — the car that was supposed to help save lives and put bad guys in jail had jumped the curb and was now pursuing her as if it was still on asphalted street. How did you trick a car? A car that has no driver? Had she had the time to run to a busy intersection, she'd risk going across it in hopes of the traffic blocking the police car from advancing. But she didn't have the time and the police car was right on her heels. Why didn't it just ram her already?

She cut into the front lawn of a family's house she knew nothing about, hoping her sudden detour would make the car hesitate. It didn't… figured. It rolled through the flowers and bushes and even the hedge, without the slightest pause. Sam found herself leaping for the nearest tree with the lowest branch, which actually wasn't all that far, and gripped it with her hands while scuffing her feet up the trunk until she had enough leverage to swing her legs around the limb to secure herself. She was almost upside down.

"Sam!" She heard Michael yell just barely over the car's angry revving.

And as if things couldn't get any worse, well… they did. She struggled to right herself on the branch as an odd variety of sounds erupted from a place much too close for comfort. She begged herself not to look, but the sounds were growing, coming up all around her, consuming everything. Clanking, grinding, hissing. She trembled so bad she feared she'd lose her grip.

One leg on the branch, she swung the other off to hoist her chest up with shaky arms. A series of 'don't falls' became a mantra in her head that she repeated silently. The shadow on the tree was dark… darker than normal for the time of day, for its positioning. She crawled to the crook of the branch and clung to the trunk's bark, trying to hide in its leafy confines, but she knew whatever it was the police car had become was perfectly aware of her location. She hugged the tree and edged around, groping with one foot for a nearby branch to transfer onto.

A cruel laugh swelled around her. "You think you can hide? Descendent of Captain Archibald Witwicky?" The voice was mechanical. And if evil had a sound, that voice _owned_ it.

She shrieked when she saw the metal face looming through the branches, directly at her. Her body was gripped with terror for her own life. Her mind was racing frantically. What was this thing? What did it want with her? What the hell was going on?!

"Leave me alone!" Sam screeched. "I've done nothing wrong — I don't have anything you want!" Her own voice sounded distant as the blood pounded in her head, like ceremonial drums preceding an execution or burial or even a battle. She didn't want to die, no, she wasn't ready for that. She wanted to live so bad, so bad, so bad. "Please don't kill me!"

Something had been ejected from the giant black and white mass, something much smaller in comparison, but she had the impression it was equally dangerous. She didn't see it at first, just heard it as it purred and chittered, hacking its way through bark and leaves toward her. The big monster growled to it an order. "Apprehend the human and drag her out, but don't seriously harm her. If she has the glasses—" The smaller thing sounded as if it grumbled, "_I know, I know_," impatiently in response.

The tree was no longer safe. Panicking, Sam swept her gaze beneath her. In her hurry to evade whoever — _whatever _— the now taller and humanoid police car was, she'd scaled further up, maybe ten feet. If she jumped, she knew it wouldn't do her any harm, but recovering from it might give the police car and its accomplice the opening they were looking for to snag her.

Then it was above her, an odd looking thing with manic glowing blue optics. It could've been a toy, for all she knew, but she knew that toys didn't move. Or at least, not with as much ease as this thing did. She had to get down, but after that, there'd be no place to escape to, no place…

"SAM!" It was Michael again, but this time, his yell was followed by two urgent honks. "JUMP!"

She twisted her neck towards the call. Michael Banes had just leapt out of the passenger side door of… her Camaro? Her Camaro, which was actually just stopping at the end of a controlled skid so that the driver's side was facing her. The door flew open, no one in the seat. Another honk, and Michael was beckoning to her while running, though dodgy in her direction. "JUMP!"

The small robotic creature was less than a foot above her and it was about to pounce, metallic claws extended — she jumped first with a yelp as she plummeted the ten feet, half through the tree's clinging appendages, then a free fall the last five or so feet. She toppled backward onto her butt and scrambled around to her knees, getting up just as Michael grabbed her arm and tugged. The robot jumped after her, but it was too late. Half dragged to the car, Sam clambered into the driver's seat while Michael hurdled across the hood to take the passenger's side. The doors slammed shut and the tires squealed.

"AUTOBOT SCUM!" the police monster roared as the Camaro accelerated away. Furiously, it collapsed down back into a car and chased after them, sirens blaring.

Sam leaned back in the seat after watching the large robot's transformation back to its car form. She was still shaking and out of breath, absolutely terrified but so alert, adrenaline doing its duty. Gradually, she became aware that indeed the Camaro was driving itself, the steering wheel operating independently as they sped away from the neighborhood. She held her hands up, not sure what to do with them — should she try to drive? What _was_ driving? Her hands dropped in her lap and as inhaled deeply, her eyes landed on Michael.

"You were telling the truth."

Michael nodded mutely and both turned one last time to look back at a street that was filled with scared and befuddled citizens of Tranquility, Nevada, staring after them in the Camaro and the police car that really wasn't a police car.

She licked dry lips and sunk further into her seat, lifting a hand to place upon her forehead. Things had happened so fast and without warning — her car had a mind of its own, and a faux police unit was after what, again? Oh yeah, Archibald Witwicky's glasses, the hell was that? How was she going to explain this to her parents?

"Well… shit." Since when did her day go from _bad_ to _worse_?

* * *

_Fuel_ by Metallica.


	3. Chapter 3

_Title:_ All About Us

_Author:_ Riariti no Iru-jon

_Fandom:_ Transformers 2007 Movie-verse; AU

_Genre:_ Drama/Sci-fi

_Rating:_ T [for the time being]

_Warnings:_ Alternate universe; language [mostly Sam]; violence; some sexuality; crude humor; all around poor writing and unreliable updates; insane author; you get the picture

_Synopsis:_ Meet Samantha Witwicky, an ordinary teenager who's about to get her very first car. But she gets more than just a car — an adventure of a lifetime, a friendship to last beyond a lifetime, and a purpose to life as never imagined before. After all, there's nothing like big mean robots after your great-great-grandfather's glasses, is there?

_Author's Note: _Starts with Bumblebee's perspective from before the story through chapter two. Then back with Sam and Michael, as they try to get to know each other _and_ meet the rest of the Autobots.

I'm personally going to try to make all chapters anywhere between 5,000 and 10,000 words, just so you know and for future references.

* * *

[**All About Us**]

by [_Riariti no Iru-jon_]

Disclaimer: As stated in the original, I don't own Transformers or any associated materials. I have not a dime to my name — college is paid with federal grants, lovely things those are. So kindly refrain for legal action; I am merely indulging in twisted fantasies concocted by my sleep-deprived and math-riddled brain.

FYI, as usual, credit for lyrics, etc., will appear at the end of each chapter, if applicable. Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Recap:**

_**I'm Sam Witwicky and this has been the worst day of my life. How could everything go so wrong so fast? Milli is dead because she let her boyfriend convince her to participate in less than legal activities. I witnessed it; I held her mangled, lifeless body in my arms. Now there are megalomaniac transforming robots after my ass, my car can drive itself, and Michael Banes, my crush, has somehow managed to get right in the middle of it.**_

* * *

[_Chapter III: A Thin Line_]

Ch. Warnings: Language; angst; a moody Sam

* * *

When Bumblebee first came to Earth, he was torn between, "Oh, my, what an adventure this'll be!" and, "Where the hell am I supposed to start?" As a scout, it was his nature to be somewhat curious, to gather information, and learn as much as he could. He was both excited and apprehensive, because they were talking about the Cube, after all, and the continuation of his race depended on them finding it. But where to start? It seemed like he was in for some good old fashioned recon, for an undeterminable amount of time. Fortunately, his concept of time differed greatly from human's. A few years was nothing and it really didn't bother him if he spent even longer, because Earth was just _fascinating_.

Well, a little weird — he'd never seen so many organics in one place at one time. They swarmed, logically and illogically, depending on the species, humans more the latter than the former. And humans were _interesting_ and he couldn't deny that the knowledge he gained in his search was phenomenal. Finding references on alien Cubes wasn't an easy task and he'd scoured databases, civilian and military alike. But damn if it wasn't just shy of a hopeless case.

He'd stumbled upon the old newspaper articles on accident, really, as he was really just taking a little down time to pursue some personal interests when the Cube search turned out no results. Although he couldn't translate the hieroglyphs, he recognized the distinct style and just _knew_. It was the first time he'd heard of Captain Archibald Witwicky and had gotten a solid lead. Thus began his intense study of the Witwicky line.

Captain Witwicky was an intriguing case, one of the first to risk the harsh conditions and obstacles of the Arctic Circle. What he and his team stumbled upon, however, changed everything. Unfortunately, there was no official report, except coverage that he'd suffered from a mental breakdown and ended up institutionalized, muttering things about symbols and colossal icemen from space. There was plenty of speculation about this supposed iceman, though many believed he'd just finally cracked. To Bumblebee, however, it was specifically telling.

It was well known amongst the Autobots that Megatron knew where the Cube was and was hiding somewhere on Earth. Perhaps his alleged visit hadn't got exactly as planned — a navigational malfunction? From where would Witwicky get the knowledge of an ancient Cybertronian language if not from Megatron himself? Who else? But that left a puzzling afterthought: why? Why would Megatron share their culture with a human? _That_ didn't make sense and it was hard to admit that he might never make a connection. So he did what little he could: locate the remaining Witwicky's and observe, observe, observe…

The latest generations of Witwicky's lived in Tranquility, a three-person family consisting of Ronald Witwicky, his wife, Judy, and their daughter, Samantha Jane, who attended the local high school. It wasn't entirely difficult to keep an eye on them or hack their phone lines and computers, never mind that it was an invasion of privacy, as humans put it. He knew their schedules, their habits, even their grocery list — he was _not_ a stalker, damn it, but he had a duty to perform here and he couldn't afford to not be extra attentive.

Scanning their computers was what alerted him to the genealogy report Samantha submitted to the school's archive and it was to his surprise and inner delight that she'd done her own digging into the captain's life, which all but corroborate his own findings. Images he'd never seen were quickly added to his memory banks, but one in particular caught his attention — Captain Witwicky's glasses. The fractures weren't so much cracks as they were indentions in the surface of the glass, curiously. It was as if all the pieces came together and Bumblebee felt so elated, he was sure he'd transform wings and take off.

Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one to make these connections, Decepticon slag! And they'd had the convenience of hacking into Air Force One. But now that _he_ knew, he could at least do something about it. It was just his luck, then, that young Sam Witwicky was in need of a car. Things were turning out quite nicely for Bumblebee, if he could say so himself, so after sending a report to Optimus Prime, he proceeded with his plan.

And he'd gotten quite good at tailing Mr. Witwicky's green convertible from a distance without being noticed. He wasn't a scout for nothing, after all. They drove through the better part of the town, scouring car dealerships. Sam was primarily off in her own world as her father herded her from car to car, trying to get more than a noncommittal grunt or halfhearted shrug out of her — mood swings, common enough in female humans, especially adolescent ones. From cultural studies, he knew that moody females were to be regarded with the utmost respect. YouTube was responsible for that sentiment; he'd cringed after viewing half a dozen or so on female behavior patterns, which could be rather scary, if he allowed himself to admit it, but it was necessary that he had as much information as possible, considering Sam was practically his ward now.

Bumblebee noticed a decrease of tension in the seventeen-year-old as they rolled into the lot of Bolivia's, and gee, but something about that clown holding the sign was unnerving. In a brief fit of consideration, he figured the fellow in costume would hold out no more than thirty more minutes before heat exhaustion sank in. Taking the opportunity of distraction (what had the man said that got Mr. Witwicky so riled up?), the 'bot in Camaro form snuck in and went for the closest awning with an available parking place, which happened to be next to a dusty yellow Volkswagen. So there he waited, trying to exude as much charm and magnetism a car could without having to paint, "pick me, pick me!" on his hood.

To say he was smug when Sam seemed immediately drawn to the Camaro was an understatement, but he'd never confess to such an emotional response. He waited patiently as she inspected his frame, before gently prying open the door on the driver's side and sliding in. It was odd having a passenger, not quite as disconcerting as he'd originally expected. Actually, it made him a little giddy and… well, playful wasn't the right word. But he was going to put as much effort forward as he could into convincing both parent, child, and dealer that _he_ was the right pick. Annoying the dealer was a bit of a rush and Bumblebee purposefully jammed his doors, the intoxicating sensation of a human so nearby bringing out his more mischievous side. It was _fun_, damn it, and Optimus could go scrap himself if he ever wanted to disagree. He could almost hear the deep chiding voice, "Don't taunt the mortals, they are very delicate," or something of that sort.

Making sure Bobby B. got a good whack from the passenger door, Bumblebee tinkered a little with his radio and planned his next… assault. Naturally, he'd start out small and if that didn't work, try something more drastic. He really didn't want to traumatize the humans _too_ much. That could be detrimental to his mission. He was rather pleased with the reaction when he cranked the radio and even smug, especially because the adults gave spectacular jerks of surprise and unease while the younger seemed unbothered, if not amused and even intrigued. _Autobot: 1, stiff, uptight adults: 0._ He had every intention to make the dealer _want_ to get rid of him.

Shattering the windows of the cars around him with a shrill wail, he accomplished his goal and inwardly cheered. Sam was already showing attachment to him and that was another step in the right direction. Despite being young, she was an attentive driver and was not rough with the wheel, accelerator, or decelerator. Inspired, he turned on his radio again and she was still completely unperturbed by the bizarre behavior. A peculiar human, indeed.

Later, he experienced his first wash and it took all of his self control not to purr at the attention — the water was pleasantly mild and the sponge soft, though just coarse enough to produce the friction needed to remove any grime. He supposed this was comparable to what humans called a full body massage; he was in _heaven_ and was disappointed when it ended — note to self: get dirty often — but his sensors indicated that it was getting late for the humans in this time zone and blowing his cover was certainly not an option. Resigned to a quiet night, he absently plugged into the internet; he wanted to finish _Independence Day_, illegally acquired, no doubt. Human culture was almost as interesting as the humans themselves.

A call on Sam's cell phone distracted him from his, cough, research, and he listened with dedicated attentiveness, cross referencing when necessary. Inflection for humans was very revealing and it was apparent that his charge was anxious and concerned for the one she called Milli. The call ended too soon, but he had no trouble replaying it, analyzing more of the background noise. What he heard was troubling and Bumblebee knew at once that he most certainly did _not_ want Sam anywhere near that lake. So when she clambered into the driver's seat, he stubbornly remained immobile, unwilling to put his charge in danger.

He hoped she'd give up and just go back inside, but she didn't, instead bursting into tears, yelling, and banging at his interior. It didn't hurt or anything, but her despair was so tangible that after a while he couldn't discern whether it was his or hers, so thick and heavy it was. And, well, he didn't exactly like being called a _piece of shit car_ by anyone, especially his ward. Though not flesh and bone like humans, he was a living, feeling being with an exceptional sense of empathy of would border on what humans would perceive as supernatural, _though humans were rather easy to read with their facial expressions and body language, so it wasn't difficult per se to interpret their emotions_.

Giving in to her urgings, he revved up his engine and was consumed by overwhelming relief. This human, Milli, was important to Sam, and in extension important to him. He didn't realize how bad it could go, having expected to simply pick up an inebriated teenager; the worst that could happen, as he could easily drive if needed, would be regurgitation on his upholstery, and while it wasn't pleasant, it was cleanable and therefore something that could be put right. He should've paid more attention to his surroundings, but it was too late.

He didn't realize exactly how good it made him feel to be acknowledged for his superior engineering, which the human Michael Banes did quite readily. And damn it, but it overcame all his senses when the knowledgeable driver expertly revved his engine and handled the wheel, and before he knew exactly what was going on, he was in a lineup with remarkably _inferior_ machines. Where was the harm in showing off a bit, so long as he made sure he won by a marginal amount. His reason had fled in the face of exhilaration and the promise of speed. He was built for speed and, really, what harm could it do?

Bumblebee wanted to kick himself for his stupidity. His lack of thought and carelessness was a painful proverbial slap in the face and did marvels to deflate his ego. He forgot he was an extraterrestrial as he tracked the blue truck's projected course, Reality hit him hard and he forcefully took away Michael's control, cursing the fleshy mass for distracting him so. But the truck's driver was reckless in his state and had no qualms about playing rough; it occurred to Bumblebee that he could not risk the human in his cab and he most certainly couldn't transform to intervene, so he found himself woefully with very few viable options.

He was suddenly acutely attuned to his charge and her pain and any concern for his passenger all but disappeared as he flung open the door and thrust the boy out, pulling up unnoticed next to two humans: one breathing, one not. _So stupid… what had he been thinking?_

By the time they were alone, he picked up a police transmission. Part of him was relieved, but another part knew he had to get Sam out of there. With Sam apparently unwilling to budge, he had no choice but to transform. With all the gentleness he could muster, he separated the two bodies, leaving the lifeless one and cradling the living one in the palm of his hand; the only thing she noticed was that she was suddenly away from her dead friend and her tears only stopped because she slipped into emotional shock. Now he had to get them back to the Witwicky residence, but first… he needed to check in with Optimus.

How he got her into her room and bed was still a bit of a mystery to him. Visual projections weren't unheard of, but a physically _tangible_ one? That was ludicrous, mythical even. Yet still he'd managed, perhaps in the sheer need of it, and a miniaturized version of himself carefully delivered the human to the safety of unkempt bedcovers. He couldn't do much else, exhausted to the point of overloading himself, and had no choice but to withdraw and settle in for a thorough recharge. He'd ponder his remarkable feat later.

When morning came, he was still low on energy, but not anywhere near enough to put him at risk of a spontaneous shutdown. He again focused his attention to the activities within the Witwicky house, keeping close tabs on Sam. She didn't take the news well at all, after her parents told her about Milli. The young human closed in on herself like a hermit, but as the day progressed, she got better. How far she'd come, he couldn't say yet, after referring to something called the Kübler-Ross model, the stages of grief. She'd gotten over the denial and was somewhere between anger and depression, though he could sense the vague crush of resignation. Not quite acceptance, no, but progress…

The arrival of Michael Bane elicited a strange response in him — the desire to run him off the predominant, the other the acknowledgement that Sam might need someone her age to talk to — it was all very confusing. Unfortunately, chasing a human boy _without_ a driver would raise unwanted suspicion — _damn it_. Worry for his charge's wellbeing, however, demanded he at the very least followed at a safe distance and within minutes, he was very glad he'd done just that.

Barricade came out of _nowhere_, sirens wailing and tires screeching against the asphalt. Momentarily stunned, Bumblebee could do little but watch in horror as Sam barely avoided the police car — _"To Punish and Enslave"_ — before finally returning to himself. Reluctantly, he coerced Michael into the passenger's side (Sam had some sort of emotional attachment to him and Bumblebee wasn't willing to let another person she cared for be hurt) and barreled off in the direction his ward was with an insane Decepticon.

Well, he certainly hadn't expected _this _to happen, and he wasn't at all thrilled that the Decepticons acted so soon. With any luck, Optimus Prime and the Autobots would enter the atmosphere before nightfall, and if not before, then sometime within the late hours. In the meantime, he needed to lose Barricade and get to the rendezvous coordinates.

* * *

Sam wasn't prone to frequent migraines, but when one did hit her, it hit hard and merciless. Accumulation of stress, no doubt, and it didn't help that her lower abdomen had begun to cramp, which could mean only two things: menstrual cycle or bowel trouble. In a painful haze, she wondered which one was worse, though the throbbing being her eyes threatening to split open her head trumped both with a swift, crippling fist. For the first time, she really appreciated the Camaro's unnatural ability to drive on its own accord; she didn't care where they ended up, just so long as they were as far away from the wretched wailing of the police siren as possible.

Eyes pinched shut and an arm slung across her face to block out any unwanted light, she allowed some relief to flood her at the current of air that flowed through the open car window. The coolness helped ease the nausea and settled her jumbled nerves. The one thing she remembered enjoying about running was the exhilaration of wind whipping across her face, tangling with her hair, a constant resistance against her inertia. It numbed her to a degree, or at least enough that she didn't feel the urge to bomb this side of the solar system — futile thought that was.

She sorted through her thoughts then, carefully tucking away any associated with her current physical discomfort. She needed to be able to think with a clear head, she realized, as the adrenaline high flushed from her system. Be objective, she told herself. Disconnect if you have to. Though it technically wasn't healthy to do such, she needed her intellectual self as close to hand as possible. Emotions would only make things harder. She needed to _think_.

Peeking out from under her arm, she glanced at Michael and instantly regretted it, grunting softly in pain. _Ignore the pain, it is irrelevant, it will only hinder you_. A mantra she used to tell herself in the midst of a grueling race. Though out of practice with such restraint, she knew she was capable of it. So, get to the important stuff: what the hell is going on?

"Your ten cents on the matter?" she inquired through a grimace, schooling her voice to as close to neutral as she could. She wished she could tell the Camaro to at least _try_ to drive a little smoother, or she might just vomit on the nice upholstery.

Michael wasn't nearly as tense as Sam, going with the flow better than she was. His original assessment of Samantha was a fickle thing because her moods just kept shifting. To her credit, she had just lost a loved one and Michael sympathized, though he hadn't known Milli as well; more along the lines of acquainted through Trent. Trent, not a very happy subject matter. Michael was fairly confident Sam had a steadily growing list of ways to torture the jock. At first, her righteous anger had been a little amusing, but now… well, now he wondered if Trent really should be worried for his life.

"_Your ten cents on the matter?"_ He slipped from his thoughts and glanced at the girl slumped in the driver's seat next to him. She was rather plain, the girl next door type, but Michael knew aesthetics weren't everything. Working on cars with his dad taught him that — not that those were some of his prouder moments. And damn, but this Camaro was about as tangible of proof as one could ask for!

Oh, Sam had said something, hadn't she? What exactly _did_ he think of all this? Hell if he knew. In all honesty, he hadn't thought much about it since the car swerved up next to him with a door wide open in invitation, as if saying, "Get your ass in here before things get _really_ bad." Frankly, he was probably in a bit of denial, but he'd work through that later. What did occur to him, however, was that the siren was distinctly less loud and therefore logically had fallen behind them as they soared down the road out of town.

"Well, I'll admit that my ten cents is a little lacking, but I'd reckon," he said reasonably, "that we just encountered a hostile, polymorphic automaton with human-level sentience and were rescued by a not so hostile, sentient automaton that has masqueraded as your car."

Sam snorted. "You have such a way with words," she drawled in a slightly hoarse voice, while behind her arm she was rolling her eyes in a very _no shit, Sherlock_ manner. She knew that this was probably a lot more serious than she was allowing herself to admit, but after such a traumatic day, this shard of sarcasm was what kept her sane. It was a common coping mechanism, she was sure. "Anything else?"

"Can't see the police car anymore."

That got her attention. Prying her arm away from her face, she twisted around to squint over the seat and through the back window. Biting her lip to keep from making a pained sound, she indeed saw that the police car had fallen behind. She couldn't hear the siren over the howl of the wind and took that as a good sign. But how long would this last?

"If we lost it, why are we still going? And where?" Sam gave the steering wheel a quizzical look, as if it might answer her. A glance at the speedometer showed they were pushing 80, much like she'd done that very morning in her hurry to get to the lake. It was her best guess that they were on an unmarked country road, civilization far behind them, desert ahead of them.

"_It ain't over yet,"_ the radio crackled to life and sang, the catchy tune unable to sugarcoat the underlying foreboding. The abruptness made both occupants start, needing a moment to process the implications.

"Does that happen a lot?" Michael asked, nodding with his head at the radio.

"'Fraid so." The corner of her lips twitched a little, trying not to smile. Her migraine wasn't as pressing a nuisance as it had been now, though it was by no means gone. In a deep sigh, she exhaled her troubles and tried to concentrate on what was actually happening. She'd just been chased up a tree by an unmanned car that could change into a friggin' _robot_ and saved by a Camaro that may also be able to transform — _not while we're still in here, I hope,_ she mused. And for some reason or another, a pair of ancient glasses were very important; at least, important enough to warrant retrieval from a big ass, walking, _talking_, machine.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, wondering what was to come of them from this point on. It surprised them both when Michael took the initiative. "Look, about earlier, the things I said — I'm sorry, I was really insensitive. You just lost your best friend and that's hard."

A sad smile worked its way onto Sam's face. "I tried to talk her out of it, you know, but she was so infatuated, so enmeshed with Trent that everything else came second, even her own safety. I just can't stand the thought that he gets to live the a life that Milli no longer has a chance at. So much potential," she murmured with a choking laugh. "She wanted to be a novelist and she couldn't choose between two genres: science fiction or gay erotica."

"_Gay erotica_?" Michael sounded so incredulous that Sam's laugh became more heartfelt.

"She read too much Harry Potter fanfiction. She's a hardcore Sirius slash Remus shipper. Thinks Voldemort's hot, too." Unaware she'd slipped back into the comfortable and disillusioning routine of present tense, the forlorn smile was a full blown grin now as Sam thought back to the first time Milli got her to actually sit down and _read_ it. She'd been shocked at just how graphic these things were that Milli read. And arousing, too, though she'd never admit it.

"_Voldemort_?" He was absolutely astonished now, just a step down from complete disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all." At his flabbergasted look, she took pity on him. "I know, she's borderline insane, I will admit that, but completely harmless." Then it all hit her again and she flinched. "At least she was before she died." The words were bitter on her tongue and she had the overwhelming urge to spit and gargle some mouthwash. The cruel truth was also there, unable to allow her a moment of blissful ignorance, to pretend it never happened. But it had and Sam was essentially friendless.

"I never really gave her much thought," Michael admitted, voice slow and reluctant. He stared out the window to avoid seeing the painful flinch Sam made. "Around Trent, she was just so…"

"Ditzy?"

He gave her an apologetic grimace. "Yeah, exactly. Like her entire existence revolved around him. So I instinctively brushed her off, didn't take her seriously."

Sam didn't deny any of it, because it was true: Milli had been consumed by all that was Trent, to the point of obsession. She'd claimed it was love, but even Sam thought that sounded a little hokey and _she_ was a romantic at heart. "Be that as it may, she was still the greatest friend a girl could ask for." Carding her hand through her hair, she gave Michael a sideways glance. "So, tell me something about yourself."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Siblings? Arrests? Hidden talents? Anything to take my mind off it."

With an acquiescing nod, he considered his options. Sam had been open so far with him, so it was all he could do to do the same, right? It felt like he owed her that much, at least. "Well, I'm car savvy, as I'm sure you've noticed. What many don't know is how I got to be that way."

"Something illegal, from the way you make it sound," she inputted with a sardonic smirk.

"Precisely. My dad worked a lot with stolen cars and he often needed help to get the job done in the small window of opportunity he had. By the time I could talk, I all but knew the mechanics and engineering behind over a hundred models." He paused a moment to consider his audience. If Sam was surprised, she didn't show it, the image of perfect, disconnected curiosity. She wasn't judging him.

"For a long time, I didn't understand just how wrong it was, until years later. I couldn't have been older than twelve when I saw a news report on TV about a stolen car and a shootout over it that caused the deaths of several uninvolved people. It was the same car he had hidden in the shed, I realized. And then I knew what I had to do. Didn't like it at all, but what choice did I have?

"So I called the cops and they arrested my dad. I told them everything they needed to know to nail him for grand theft auto, but his involvement with the shooting was too iffy for him to be charged with anything. Incidentally, I admitted to have helped him, so I ended up with a juvie record, though the court ruled I wouldn't serve jail time."

And Sam chuckled, of all things. "Let me get this straight, the police wrote you up because you turned in your father?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Well, I'll be damned."

"God bless America."

They shared quiet laughs with each other, the ice officially broken, as the sun began to set and the Camaro showed little desire to slow down anytime soon.

* * *

Their journey came to an end when the car turned into a complex of old, abandoned plants and warehouses that looked as if they were once used for mass marketing — for what, they'd probably never know. But under the cover of night and the obvious emptiness, it seemed to be the perfect place to hide or wait, whichever the Camaro intended for them. The car rolled smoothly to a stop and the doors opened on their own accord, allowing them exit from the cab.

Stretching her cramped legs, Sam worked a crick out of her back with a little help from Michael and took a look around the empty compound they'd parked in. To put it simply, it was bare and provided little shelter from the chill the proceeded a typical day's heat in Nevada. That lead the two of them to rummage around for dead leaves and twigs to put in a pile so Michael could set it ablaze with the lighter in his back pocket.

"You smoke?" Sam asked with a cheeky smile, still nonjudgmental.

"On occasion, but not often enough to get addicted."

"Only takes one."

"Have _you_ ever smoked?" he rebutted with the quirk of an eyebrow.

Her smile widened. "Once. Didn't like it."

Michael stopped for a moment to study her. She was completely at ease, the migraine she'd mentioned to him earlier seemingly not bothering her anymore. Her posture was loose as she propped up her hands behind her and leaned back, legs sprawled comfortably out in front of her. Her head was angled slightly to the side, making her hair catch in her face. He knew at once that it was her inner beauty that gave her this appeal, not her actual appearance — she was _plain_, after all.

Sam, the personification of all things simple and good; it was unthinkable that she'd ever try a cigarette, even if prompted by Milli. So he was naturally suspicious and his eyes said as much. "Really." An earnest nod. "When?"

The smile became a smirk. "Fourth grade."

And Michael did something completely undignified: he sputtered. "_What_?"

"Crazy uncle [1], thought if I experienced it early, I wouldn't be curious in trying it when the teenage rebellion stage began," she explained with a flippant shrug. "Needless to say, I didn't like it. But I was getting over a sore throat at the time. I think he planned it somehow so that I'd be visiting then. Crafty old man."

"Your family is _weird_." And she certainly didn't deny it. So forget simple and good and replace it with crazy and full of surprises. They slipped into silence again, and just like before, it was comfortable and easy. As if they'd known each other for a long time, like they did this sort of thing often. It was bizarre, but neither complained. Companionship was a sacred thing and after the events over the past twenty-four hours, companionship was a God-given gift.

But Michael was curious, like she'd been. "So, I told you my opinion. What do you think about this mess?"

She was suddenly pensive, sitting up to fold her legs and wring her hands together, and shifted her gaze to anywhere but him, forehead creased in a contemplative frown. Michael had so far been honest, in her opinion, so the least she could do was reciprocate. Heaving a sigh, she gazed up at the broken rafters over their heads, glimpsing stars between the beams. "Truthfully? I'm trying not to think about it at all. What's going on? Not a clue. Why are we here? Beats me. The day's been bad enough as it is; I can't change it, neither can you. I'd like to think that there's a reason for everything, but I'm fairly certain I didn't ask for any of this to happen.

"I'm not fully understanding what's going on. I mean, it's not every day that you get chased by a police car turned robot. It's not every day your friend does something stupid and gets herself killed. It's not every day that a Camaro drives you and your crush to a secluded stretch of factories that could potentially be radioactive. It's most certainly not every day that — that I ramble like this and end up saying something completely and utterly stupid and therefore making a complete and utter fool out of myself." She took a deep breath. "Allow me a minute to sulk over my phenomenal display of idiocy."

Michael couldn't help it; he threw back his head and laughed, unfazed by the deathly glare she gave him.

* * *

They were lightly dozing when the undeniable sound of car engines came from just outside the warehouse. Sam's first instinct was to tense up and prepare for flight, the police car fresh on her memory. When the Camaro kept stationary, however, she presumed it meant there was no danger. That didn't keep her from scrambling to her feet, however, and to check her bearings, particularly the exits for possible escape routes if necessary. To her dismay, those exits were blocked as four vehicles made to surround them.

Michael turned a critical eye on the new arrivals and almost immediately was able to spout off models, though he decided to keep it to himself. He doubted now was a good time to flaunt his superior intellect of cars and other vehicles. He really didn't want to get hit by Sam again, and _damn _she hit hard. Not an experience he really wanted to repeat. Maneuvering himself to stand beside her, He noticed she relaxed marginally — if this was a trap, they weren't completely alone, then. And really, who wanted to die alone?

And then everything changed, because suddenly those same cars were shifting and moving and growing, each and every last one of them, even the Camaro, into things too reminiscent of the cop car for either of them to be comfortable, especially Sam, who hissed like an angry cat with its fur standing on end. Michael wasn't too sure as well, but nevertheless nudged the girl behind him, as any proper man would do for a lady when faced with potential danger. It might have been more effective, too, if it weren't for the fact that their was a transforming robot in whichever direction they turned.

Sam felt the heat of five pairs of glowing blue optics on them and it took all her might not to panic, though her breathing was rebelling quite marvelously and if they didn't kill her soon, she'd pass out from oxygen deprivation. A hand wrapped gently around her upper arm and she turned to look at Michael nervously.

"I don't think they're going to hurt us," he murmured, almost sounding as sure as he looked, which wasn't much at all.

She merely gasped in air, trembling helplessly. It was too much, too soon. So distraught, she barely registered the conversation above them, let alone heard it.

"Optimus, the female's respiration is dangerously accelerated. Epinephrine levels are elevated. I believe humans refer to it as a 'panic attack.'"

"Indeed. Was it not Bumblebee's intention to inform the humans of our arrival?"

"There is a glitch in his vocal processors. I believe it has festered for some time and now has rendered him mute until I can make the necessary repairs."

"Thank you, Ratchet. Ironhide, if you will restrain yourself, I believe your cannons are causing undue stress for the humans."

"Just showing 'em off. It's not like I'm going to shoot the fleshlings, Optimus."

"Regardless, kindly put them away."

"Alright, alright. The upgrades are quite impressive, you must admit."

It took some effort, but Sam felt her heart slowly calm and her breathing smooth out, though she was still panting. Feeling returned to her extremities so she could hold herself upright and not lean against poor Michael, who had supported the brunt of her weight midst her episode. She gave him a dry look, managing the slightest smile as she gasped out, "Polymorphic automatons, my ass."

* * *

[1] The same one that gave Sam the porn magazine in the movie.

6000 words, approximately. I cut it short in order to publish it faster; hope there are no complaints.

A question for readers. What was Archibald Witwicky's relation to Sam exactly? I have mixed up sources that range from grandfather to great-great-grandfather and I chose the median, to be safe, but if it's in error, I would like to know so I can correct it ASAP.

_7-13-09: I believe the consensus is for great-great-grandfather, so I went ahead and changed it in all three chapters. Thanks for all the help._

Note the poll in my profile. It's not necessary, but the feed back would be helpful, as I'm open-minded to pretty much any and all pairings at the time being. I'm purposefully strengthening relations between characters in preparation for whichever prevails. Even if it doesn't end up Sam/Michael, to build on their friendship at the very least can never go amiss.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.

_Riariti no Iru-jon_


	4. Chapter 4

_Title:_ All About Us

_Author:_ Riariti no Iru-jon

_Fandom:_ Transformers 2007 Movie-verse; AU

_Genre:_ Drama/Sci-fi

_Rating:_ T [for the time being]

_Warnings:_ Alternate universe; language [mostly Sam]; violence; some sexuality; crude humor; all around poor writing and unreliable updates; insane author; you get the picture

_Synopsis:_ Meet Samantha Witwicky, an ordinary teenager who's about to get her very first car. But she gets more than just a car — an adventure of a lifetime, a friendship to last beyond a lifetime, and a purpose to life as never imagined before. After all, there's nothing like big mean robots after your great-great-grandfather's glasses, is there?

* * *

[**All About Us**]

by [_Riariti no Iru-jon_]

Disclaimer: As stated in the original, I don't own Transformers or any associated materials. I have not a dime to my name — college is paid with federal grants, lovely things those are. So kindly refrain for legal action; I am merely indulging in twisted fantasies concocted by my sleep-deprived and math-riddled brain.

FYI, as usual, credit for lyrics, etc., will appear at the end of each chapter, if applicable. Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Recap:**

**_So, I'll be frank. Life is fucking weird right about now. It makes me wonder if I've finally lost it; I haven't quite decided on that yet. Whether that is the case or not, it seems that my car is an alien robot! Must insist on a psych eval. If I'm going crazy, I'd like to know from the experts. Michael seems real enough, though. Despite crushing on him, I think I can live with friendship – he's pretty cool like that. Did I mention alien robots? Polymorphic automatons, my ass!_**

* * *

[_Chapter IV: What Is, Is (And You Can't Do Anything About It)_]

Ch. Warnings: Language; Sector Seven madness and stupidity; an increasingly irritated Sam; etc.

* * *

Suddenly the world turned upside down and Sam swayed on her feet, trying to regain some semblance of balance in the haze of confusion and exhaustion. Everything was spinning and that blasted migraine was back with a vengeance and she barely managed to stop herself from toppling over. _Polymorphic automatons_, she thought dazedly with a half-hysterical mental laugh, _yeah, right._ Despite wishing this was all just a crazy dream she'd wake up from, she was well aware that something important was happening and she _needed_ to be conscious for it —

Well, her body didn't agree. With a strained noise that could've been the beginning of an insane giggle, her eyes rolled back and she began to fall. Michael's quick reflexes were the only thing preventing her from wiping out on hard cement floor. He grunted a little; she was light, but she was no featherweight, he noted as he carefully lowered her the rest of the way down, propping her head on his rolled up denim coat. Her face was _almost_ lax, and probably would've been if they hadn't just ran from a transforming cop car to an isolated place just to meet more transforming cars. It took a great chunk of control not to glower at said cars, because a lot of the stress was _their_ fault after all.

He wasn't the only one to notice her spell, because one of the big robots shifted in an almost anxious manner to declare, "Optimus, the human has expired! We _need_ those glasses."

"Relax, Ironhide. She has merely lost consciousness. It is a common affliction to humans that have just endured tremendous trauma. I estimate a lapse of ten Earth minutes before she wakes up. Surely we can spare that long."

Michael gazed from one robot to the other, focusing mostly on the one that was once a Camaro. He couldn't deny that his gaze was probably quite condemning, as if saying, "This is _your_ fault, so find a way to fix it." Large blue optics blinked back at him before the metallic shoulders shrugged in a very humanly gesture. It was hard to read big automatons, but Michael reckoned there was some remorse on that face, apologetic for thrusting this on them with such short notice.

Allowing Sam to wake up on her own, he turned his attention fully on the conversing — arguing just wasn't quite it — and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, human talking here, if you could _please_ explain what the hell is going on?" Let it be said that Michael did not take well to being ignored, as the robots exchanged words about a cube and sparks and deceptive-whatnot-or-another.

Several tries later with the same result, Michael swallowed in preparation and drew a deep breath, ready to belt out all the explicit language he could muster, which included some foreign. He didn't get the chance, however, because a voice from below had beat him to it, all shrill and biting tones. He winced, having known Sam could be quite loud, but not having experienced it so close.

"Will you _please_ shut the bloody _fuck_ _up_ before my head fucking _implodes_ from the _killer_ _migraine_ your fucking mechanical _chattering_ is giving me?" And, just for good measure, "_Fuck_!"

He never thought massive alien robots could _freeze_ so efficiently, but really, that voice was so chilled that molten rock would shiver if scolded by it. And it lasted until the search-and-rescue one broke the fascinating moment.

"What did I tell you? Not even ten minutes, Ironhide. Humans are remarkable in their own right."

"Hear, hear!"

"That is quite enough, Jazz." It was ultimately the blue fellow that turned to regard them, as Michael offered his hand to right the Witwicky girl. Her breathing wasn't quite as labored, but her eyes betrayed the bone-deep weariness and borderline hysteria that waged a silent war on her body. Optimus Prime looked at Bumblebee, as if portraying, "You were supposed to be keeping her safe, not traumatizing her." And Primus be damned if Bumblebee didn't _pout_.

His metallic joints whirred as he knelt down and leveled himself with the tiny bipedal fleshlings. Scans indicated that the young woman before him was indeed Sam Witwicky, but it never hurt to clarify — for the humans' sake. "Are you Samantha Jane Witwicky, descendent of Captain Archibald Witwicky?"

Sam glanced at Michael and offered him a small smile of reassurance that she wasn't going to break down again. She just needed to reboot — caffeine wouldn't go amiss, either. But when she turned back to the massive piece of alien technology, she outright deadpanned and said with the coolest voice she could muster, "What other Witwicky's do you know of?"

A static chortling sound came from Bumblebee's radio and Jazz couldn't help but snigger along. At her side, Michael seemed to choke on his saliva in attempt to restrain a chuckle of his own. "She's got a point, Optimus. The surname _is_ quite unusual."

"We're exclusive," was Sam's easy reply. She hardly blinked.

"I like her!" the Solstice mech declared, before lounging on a nearby car that had honestly seen better days. Being sat on certainly didn't help either, Sam reckoned. After her initial shock had worn off (or went on a temporary hiatus; she was sure she wasn't getting out of it _that_ easily), she had shifted her mindset to that of the track star: take things as they come, don't overanalyze, keep your head _on_. It wasn't an easy transition by any means, but she felt just dissociated enough to pull it off. It didn't keep her from feeling some relief when the same robot prompted the presumed leader in red and blue. "C'mon, Opt. Introduce us. She doesn't look like she'll faint anymore."

"I concur. Her readings show no dangerous fluctuations that may impair her thought processes. I believe it is safe to proceed."

Could a robot sound exasperatedly fond? Because Big Blue was doing a good job at it when he conceded. "You are the medic, Ratchet, I trust your judgment. Very well." The optics did something funny, Sam didn't know what to call it, but it almost seemed as if he — genderless? It sounded masculine enough — were narrowing them in — grim? — contemplation. "I apologize for being abrupt, but we truly have very little time left. You have already been approached by a Decepticon, so I am afraid this discussion must take place while en route to your residence."

Sam heaved a sigh; really, what choice did she have? Five polymorphic automatons against two itsy bitsy humans? Not a chance. "I suppose you are the good guys, then?"

"We're alive, aren't we?" Michael interjected as he ruffled his dark hair. "That's a point for them." When Sam glanced at him, she nearly did a double take because he had the oddest look on his face; she then realized that he must be in auto-mechanic _paradise_.

The calculating robotic gaze of Big Blue, as Sam dubbed him, at least until he offered a name, turned to Michael and Sam couldn't help but feel a little relieved that such focus was _not_ directed at her. "May I inquire as to your identity and relation to Miss Witwicky?" he prompted. Another snort sounded from the Solstice and Sam just barely caught the cuffing motion her Camaro gave the other as she voiced a complaint to the title, _"It's Sam!"_

Michael matched the robot's gaze in intensity, eyes roving as if trying to discern every single piece he was constructed of. It was like a futuristic science fair! God, how Sam hated those.

"My name is Michael Banes — friend from school," he said, voice impeccably polite and inviting. Sam was amazed at just how calm he was taking this. Perhaps he was rather off his rocker; she took a cautionary step _away_.

"The human possesses a criminal record, Optimus. Is it wise to associate with him?" This was spoken by Ironhide, Sam figured, who made a show of examining the really impressive set of cannons on his forearms. Sam estimated he would be the one most likely to be trigger-happy. Best steer clear for the time being.

"I believe that is to be determined by Sam," Optimus replied. Again, an uncomfortable amount of eyes landed on her.

"Pfft," she uttered after tilting her head as if _seriously_ considering just how trustworthy Michael was. She stopped a chuckle at how affronted he suddenly looked, but couldn't stop the cheeky grin on her face. She then flapped her hand dismissively. "He's harmless." The grin grew wider as Michael waged a mental war whether he should be offended or not, before he simply threw her a mildly petulant glare that had no heat behind it.

"We can always drop you off somewhere," she offered, feigning innocence like it was an art form. She'd spent hours practicing it back in ninth grade and it worked every damn time — oh, well, almost every damn time. But close enough and it got a reaction from him in the form of a scoff.

"And leave you to fend for yourself? Nonsense! I have some sense of _chivalry—_"

"Are you suggesting that because I'm a girl—"

"Not at all, just that—"

"You sexist _pig—_"

To say the majority of the Autobots were alarmed at the sudden shift was an understatement. Bumblebee merely watched the byplay with muted amusement, knowing full well this banter was a part of the unexpected (and unusual) friendship they'd developed over one long car ride. And he knew how it would end too — and, personally, that was his favorite part of the whole soap opera. Rolling his optics upward in a very human gesture, he counted down for the finale.

_THWACK_

How she made it sound so brutal, he couldn't say, and although having been the one hit, Michael only mock sulked as he rubbed the back of his head. Bee noted the subtle exchange of winks that went completely unnoticed by the Autobots; in that moment he realized this was how they were coping with the present situation, poking at each other while silently taking comfort in the presence of another. These odd behaviors didn't seem as foreign to him as it may to the others, having spent the most time on Earth with the humans. Funny things, humans. He'd never get tired of them.

"Perhaps they should be separated for the duration of the trip," Ratchet murmured, and Bumblebee was secretly surprised that their chief medical officer, who was so keen on observation, missed the tiny fact that they had been, in essence, joking around. It proved just how new to this planet they were. There seemed to be a universal agreement between 'bots that, yes, they should be kept separate, and universal meaning Bumblebee was _not_ included. Did they think he was biased?

His systems expelled a gust of air that could be considered the equivalent of a human sigh. As his teammates changed to their alternate forms, he accidentally caught the eyes of his charge(s) and sensed their hesitance. A slight incline of his head seemed to placate their concerns and he began his own transformation to his '70s Camaro incarnation. His sensors processed idly as Sam clambered into Optimus' cab and Michael in Ironhide's.

Although it wasn't choreographed, it very well seemed like it as they departed in a strategic formation with Optimus and Ironhide front middle with Jazz and Ratchet at their outer flanks, while Bumblebee, ever the scout, drove ahead to clear the way. Though at a distance, they easily shared communications, making use of the radios in the vehicles, though Bee's opinions had to be interjected by snatches of audio.

At that point, the blue Peterbilt with the snazzy flame job began. "My name is Optimus Prime. We are autonomous robotic organisms, from the planet Cybertron—"

"You can call us Autobots for short," the search-and-rescue vehicle interrupted and Sam _swore_ she could hear a touch of cheek.

"—Thank you, Ratchet. Ratchet is our chief medical officer. My first lieutenant and tactician, designation Jazz—"

"What's crackin', little bitches?" the Solstice chimed in; the Peterbilt seemed to sigh at the other interruption.

"You got that from the internet, didn't you?" Michael stated more than asked, in reference to Jazz's _unconventional_ greeting. There was an undertone of, _'Call me a bitch again and I'll find a way to disassemble you and use your pieces for modification on my super cool bike. Then it will _really _be super cool.'_ That second part didn't seem to register with the Autobots, to Sam's amusement. Still not quite used to Earth, these extraterrestrial robots, despite their research.

"You're World Wide Web is indeed informative," Optimus agreed. Then, as an afterthought: "And equally disturbing." There was a brief pause, during which Sam silently agreed that, yes, the internet could be quite disturbing, before the Autobot leader continued introductions. "Ironhide is our weapons specialist—"

"I like to blow things up," the GMC Topkick stated matter-of-factly, getting a chuckle from Michael and a nervous giggle from Sam.

"My medical bay is evidence of _that_," came Ratchet's dry response. "You must work on your temper, Ironhide. It can have detrimental effects on your hydraulics."

Ironhide grumbled something that didn't quite make it through the audio transmitters, before Optimus once again continued after being disrupted. "And you have already met your guardian, Bumblebee, who is an efficient scout and spy."

From the radio, Bee played a snippet: _"Check on the rep, second to none,"_ weaving just a little on the road in front of them and — _did he just pop a wheelie_?

"That is quite enough," Optimus gently reprimanded, though there was clear amusement in his voice. He then addressed the humans, though more specifically Sam. "He is quite young, but one of our best," he said, obviously proud of the Camaro, but speaking as if it was necessary to reassure them of his credibility and ability to perform.

Sam thought that if a car could puff up, Bumblebee would have done so just then, and she grinned fondly. Glancing to the side, she peered out the window to spot Michael with a touch of a smile on his face as well. "I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but something tells me this isn't a pleasure trip for you."

"Indeed it is not," Optimus agreed. "It is of great importance to locate an artifact that will guarantee the continuation of our race. We've been looking for it for a very long time and our search has led us here to Earth."

"And you need someone 'on the inside,' right?" Michael asked, his voice transmitted over the radio slash comms systems.

"Not precisely. The artifact we seek is the Cube, the embodiment of the Allspark, which is the creator of our planet and core of our existence. It was lost to us during a planet-wide war. But we are not the only searching for it. Another has gotten close, closer than us, already here on your planet. And your great-great-grandfather has met him."

Events from earlier returned to Sam and she nodded faintly, trusting alien technology to be able to sense that small gesture of hers. "The pseudo police car said something about glasses."

"Barricade," Ironhide snarled. "Should've known it'd be that slagger." Which Sam figured was a kind of swear.

Leaning back in the seat of Prime's cab, Sam furrowed her eyebrows as pieces began to put themselves together. "The expedition to the North Pole that he came back from mentally disturbed — it was then, wasn't it? Those not-scratches on the lenses are a message?"

"Very astute. During his expedition, he discovered the crash site of Megatron. We hypothesize that he inadvertently activated Megatron's navigational systems and the coordinates for the Cube were imprinted on his eyeglasses. It is imperative we find it before Megatron's Decepticons do, or Earth could very well become a breeding ground for new Decepticon forces."

"Which this Megatron would use to take over the world, yeah?" Michael queried, though the answer was obvious. "So Megatron and his so-called Decepticons are quote evil unquote."

"There is absolutely no 'quote unquote' about it. " That was Ironhide again.

"Evil, then."

"Precisely."

"Well, that's just _wonderful_."

"Wait, hold on," Sam piped up, back suddenly very straight and rigid. "We outran Barricade; what's stopping him from going back to my house and tearing it apart to find the glasses himself?"

"Size, for one."

"And his little buddy with the blue eyes that acts like he's had a few extra shots of espresso? What about him?"

"Frenzy. He could indeed infiltrate a human living residence. However, they aren't reckless and wouldn't look for something until they knew where it was. They are probably waiting for you to lead them to the glasses before striking."

_Swell._ "But you have no guarantee of that. My parents will have been home for a while now and if Frenzy decides to look for the glasses, they could be in very serious danger." Well, that made them stop and think for a moment. And not only her parents, but Mace and Mojo, too! "Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? _Step_ on it! Warp speed ahead, or whatever you do to go fast!" Had the circumstances been less dire, it might've been funny, but there was no joking in her voice; it had gone icy again. Needless to say, they accelerated far over the speed limit, because she was right; they could very well be in danger.

* * *

There were no police cars in sight, to Sam's absolute relief, and it apparently wasn't as late as she'd originally thought because the lights were still on inside the house. At that revelation, she winced. They had waited up for her. Oh God, how was she going to explain this? Mind racing, she leapt out of the cab and turned to tell the Autobots to lay low, except that it was already too late — they had transformed. She pinched the bridge of her nose, squinting to glare at the five extraterrestrials in the driveway and front lawn. "Is the word _discreet_ anywhere in your galactic database of vocabulary?" she hissed in annoyance. "You don't really _blend in_, if you know what I mean."

"There is a Decepticon on the premises."

At that, Sam staggered and Michael had to grab her to keep her from falling. "Where?" she breathed; she could hear her heart pounding in her ears, a drumming of blood and anxiety.

Optimus seemed to take pity on her. "Not within the building, but nearby. We will stand guard, if you would retrieve Captain Witwicky's spectacles."

With a nod, she set her jaw in determination. "If one of you would give me a lift to the window, I won't have to deal with nosy parents." Even before she finished talking, a yellow hand had extended, palm up, for her to climb onto. She gave Bumblebee a small smile of gratitude as he put her by the windowsill, allowing her to pry open the glass and scramble inside.

She'd left the light on, so there was no need to search the wall for the switch. She vaulted over her bed and scrambled to her bedside table, where she remembered stowing her great-great-grandfather's trinkets that she used in her presentation. Compass, map, 'scope… aha! Glasses. She carefully removed them from the case and held them to the light. Yeah, those definitely weren't scratches. How this so-called Megatron _engraved_ a map into the lenses, she didn't know, nor did she think she'd ever really understand. This was _really_ advanced shit here.

And to be a part of it? Scary. Weird. Unexpected. This was the kind of stuff that happened on television; and if it happened in real life, it certainly didn't happen to someone as ordinary as herself. Except it did. Her friend was dead, her car an alien, and Earth under the threat of domination — sounded like something Milli would write about. Shaking her head to clear those thoughts ­— she couldn't stop what was happening, only deal with it — Sam closed the drawer a little harder than she intended and winced.

Then she heard it.

"Sam?"

Swearing, she risked a look at the window and saw glowing blue optics staring back — big ones, belonging to an Autobot, so she wasn't in immediate danger — before hissing out a _hide, you idiots_. She could already make out the steady ascension of feet up the staircase and swore again. Well, better get ready, then. Slapping her cheeks a little to make them red, she sat on the edge of her bed and donned the most miserable expression she could, staring down at trembling hands. _Think mourning_. _Your best friend just died, you know, and _you _saw it. Fuck, you _held_ her mangled corpse in your arms. _Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and she knew she had the façade good to go when the bedroom door flung open.

She smelled the alcohol; so her parents had been enjoying a little drink. That worked in her favor. She glanced up at Ron and Judy, eyes hooded in a mixture of sorrow and exhaustion, but she could easily see the confusion and conflict on her parents' faces. "What?" she croaked. "Can't a girl get some sleep without dreaming of her dead best friend!" She sniffled noisily and scrubbed at her cheeks, looking away from them.

"But, what—" Judy Witwicky seemed to falter before gathering herself. "Where have you been?"

Again she looked at them, eyebrows drawn together. "What do you mean? I've been _right here_, trying to sleep! But I can't! I keep seeing her when I close my eyes and—"

"You left with that Banes boy, though!" her mother protested, while Ron stared fiercely at his daughter, as if doing so would reveal the answer to some mystery, before nodding in agreement.

"You did. When did you come back?"

Sam gaped up at them in faux disbelief. "You didn't see me come in? Fuck, Dad, I was sobbing my _eyes _out! And you didn't notice? How drunk are you?!" Her voice crescendo-ed, becoming slightly hysterical. She bit back a sob and curled in on herself, staring at her parents as if she'd suddenly discovered a much darker side to their character, something she couldn't wrap her head around. "I just want to go to sleep!"

"Oh, sweetie," her mother crooned, swooping down to wrap her in a hug. Her gig had worked on one of them, at least, as Mrs. Witwicky fawned over her mourning daughter. Ron still looked unsure, confident he hadn't had enough wine to impair his memory.

"Why are the lights on?" he asked instead. Both mother and daughter glared at him.

"B–because," Sam stammered. "I'm afraid… so afraid to go to sleep," she broke off with a soft sob, "in the dark! The corners, I see her in the corners, in the shadows, she's fucking haunting me, Dad! Why can't you understand me for once?!" A wail ripped from her throat and she shoved her mother away. "Get out, leave me alone! You're just making it _worse_!" she spat, mentally apologizing to them when she saw their shocked, guilty faces.

"GET OUT!" That time, they moved, though not before Judy stubbornly grabbed her in a crushing embrace, pressing a kiss to her hair and murmuring, "It'll be alright, sweetheart, you'll see, it'll be alright." When Sam began to struggle, however, she withdrew, face wrinkled in concern and sorrow. Allowing her privacy, they shut the door behind them, though Sam didn't dare cease her performance before she added a few more extra sobs and furious pounding on the surfaces around her. Only when she could no longer hear footsteps did she compose herself.

Outside the window, she spotted Michael watching with an amused smirk and Sam, being Sam, did the first thing that came to her mind: she flipped him off. Then, with barely a second thought, she snatched the glasses and rolled out of the bed, sprinting to the very same window. She accepted Michael's hand and let him help pull her over the sill.

"You get 'em?" he asked.

"Yup."

"Nice performance, by the way."

"Don't." She gave him a very well executed evil eye that did little more than encourage him.

"Crazy uncle again?"

_THWACK_

"No, preteen female melodramatics." Sam then lifted her hand again for another cuff that Michael tried to evade, but, _damn_, that girl could move fast.

_THWACK_... just for good measure.

They scrambled precariously over the roofing, trying to be quiet as they balanced on the edge of the shingles. However, they were the only ones trying to keep the noise down, as Optimus Prime and the Autobots were in a very heated discussion out of the front lawn. Sam sighed heavily, scratching the back of her neck and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. It was a good thing that House, M.D. marathon was on, good and loud, or they would've been so very _busted_.

Sharing looks with Michael, she carefully lowered herself to sit, seeing as their big metal friends were hardly paying attention to them. "How long have they been at it?"

"Since you went inside. The pros and cons of allowing us to accompany them on their mission, cons most notable. We would just get in the way, we're too fragile, we could get very easily hurt, and they can't risk distractions if they cross swords with the Decepticons, etcetera. What d'you think?"

Flashing him a self-deprecating grin, she shrugged just one shoulder. "They're right. We would get in the way. I suppose the question is whether or not we want to see this through to the end. On one hand, this is so much bigger than us; what could we possibly do to help? On the other, the fate of our planet's hanging in the balance, shouldn't we make some sort of contribution? It's only fair."

She sighed, slinging her arms loosely across her knees. "I think we would only get in the way if we went with them, but I also think there's ways we can help, if just from the sidelines."

Michael sat next to her, unperturbed by the height as he swung his legs over the side of the roof. "You haven't gotten any further than that, have you," he said with a faint smile. That disturbing little self-deprecating grin was back and Michael finally came to the conclusion that he didn't like it. He had to remind himself that she was still mourning, though, that she was hardly going to be a glowing ball of light. Worst-case scenarios were easier to deal with; prepare for the worst, hope for the best. It was less of a letdown that way, he supposed.

"… They owe me a car, though, I tell you what. Though four grand isn't bad for an alien robot in disguise, yeah?"

That made him chuckle. "You'll include interest, won't you?"

"Fuck yes. I'm not cheap. And I want something manufactured within the last decade. I did just give up a very important family heirloom, after all. It's the least they could do." Though by her tone, he knew she wasn't expecting anything of the sort. If the situation was as dire as it sounded, it was _her_ duty to contribute. Noble. Sarcastic and noble. What a combination! "How long do you think it'll take for them to notice us? The world could be ending right now, you know?"

"I think your Camaro is being stubborn. He doesn't want to leave you unprotected, but if there is a war coming, they'll need every available Autobot to pitch in. But you could always start yelling; that'll get their attention," he added, with a smirk.

"And my parents? How would I explain that to them? 'Sorry, alien robots need a refuel and a pair of glasses, then they'll be on their way; we can tidy up the yard tomorrow! Perhaps the footprints won't be so noticeable.' _That_ would go over smoothly." Exhaling loudly, she pushed her fringe out of her eyes. Michael could _hear_ the thoughts churning in her head. He watched apprehensively as she looked from the case in her hands, to the Autobots, to him, back to the case, and once more to the Autobots before a mischievous grin broke out of her face.

"What are you planning, you evil woman?" Michael was immediately wary as Sam removed the glasses and hooked them by an earpiece on her collar before she stood up, placed the case on the roof in front of her, and raised her foot—

There was a sickening crunch, a pause, and then Sam began to theatrics, looking frantic. "Oh shit, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! _SHIT_, the glasses! Oh my _God_, this is so not good! Oh God, oh God, I just fucking _stepped_ on them! Michael, Michael, shit, Michael! They're broken now, oh my God, this is really, really BAD! Why didn't you tell me I dropped them?! I didn't even see them! Oh, this is not good, shit, shit, shit, I am so, so _sorry_! Oh my God!"

Michael schooled his expression to something akin to horror as he realized what she was doing. Part of him was absolutely tickled, but the other a little hesitant, because she was doing this to a race of super robots with guns on their arms. _Don't smile, don't smile, don't smile_, he chanted to himself as Sam fell to her knees, sobbing and rambling out expletives and apologies, not as loud as she could, but enough to be heard by their guests, and fumbled with the shattered case that really didn't have the glasses in them — but they didn't know that.

It _did_ stop the argument dead in its tracks, which was her goal all along. He really needed to stop being surprised when mechanic faces expressed such emotion. He watched as Bumblebee skittered close to check on his charge, while Optimus took a trembling step back because, oh _shit_, did she just really break those glasses? Their only link to the Cube and in extension, Allspark? Too bad Bumblebee was blocking the majority of the view, or they might've spotted the undamaged glasses hanging on her shirt. Surely the Camaro had seen them by now.

Bumblebee had. He didn't know whether to be amused or annoyed, but he had to hand it to her; she knew how to get their attention.

"Sam?" It was tentative, worried, and soft, so unlike Optimus, but like him as well because there was no blame in his voice, just heartbreaking resignation.

Then Sam was back on her feet, hands on her hips, glaring at them like they were at fault. "It's about _damn_ time, don't you have an ancient artifact to find and a foe to defeat? How the fuck did you plan to do that between all the arguing?" She waved the glasses in the air, eliciting a great sigh of relief from the Autobots. "We get it, we'll only be in the way, it's _fine_. Just ring us if we have to suddenly take up arms against our toasters, okay?"

"Sam, that wasn't funny." Was that _fond_ exasperation from Optimus?

"No, it wasn't, but it was necessary, so you lot would get your act together. You've got your race to save, after all. We'll be fine, just divert attention away from us, make sure the Decepticons know I no longer have the glasses, that you're going to find your Cube, and their cause is a complete loss. Heck, split up in two and send them for a wild goose chase, I don't care. Just get your lazy chassis _moving_."

"Yup, I like her," Jazz reiterated after a pause, while Ironhide murmured at the same time, "Were we just reprimanded by a human child?" Then Optimus chuckled, because indeed they had been. Such amazing creatures, these humans! If circumstances permitted, he wouldn't mind spending more time on the planet with these interesting characters.

"Sam, we are forever in your debt," he said, as Sam passed the glasses to Bumblebee, who in turn gave them to Prime with exceptional care. "It is very possible you have just saved an entire species from extinction."

The human smiled a little. "Not if you don't hurry and do something with those glasses." She tilted her head a bit to the side and gnawed on her bottom lip as she considered something. "I suppose, if things turn out, stop by before you go?"

Optimus chuckled again. "Very well. Thank you again for all you've done. Is there any way we can repay you?"

"Besides finding that Cube? You could get me another car, if you happen by one."

"We will keep an eye out for a suitable vehicle, Sam. If all goes well, we will meet again." Then, "Autobots, roll out."

Sam observed with a mixture of sadness and triumph as the 'bots began to change, smiling softly when Michael came to her side to put a supportive arm around her. Her heart ached a little as Bumblebee hesitated, the conflict clear on his metallic countenance. Stepping out of Michael's embrace, she went to the edge of the roof, where a robotic hand waited, and climbed onto the palm, careful to keep her balance. Her smile became a grin.

"Don't go and total my first car, you hear? That was hard earned money."

"_Another mission_

_The powers have called me away_

_Another time_

_To carry the colors again_

_My motivation_

_An oath I've sworn to defend_

_To win the honor_

_Of coming back home again_"

She laughed softly as the radio clicked off and she suddenly found herself pressed against the warm plates of Bumblebee's face, his cheek, in the best hug either could manage considering their differences. She stroked the heated metal in silent wonder, trying to comprehend how this really all started, how she ended up with the coolest car that wasn't really a car, but a living creature, who, despite the short time, was just as good a friend as Michael was to her, if not more.

"Thank you for trying to save Milli," she murmured after a moment of tranquil silence. "You risked your cover and I appreciate it."

"_I will never let you fall_

_I'll stand up with you forever_

_I'll be there for you through it all_

_Even if saving you sends me to heaven_"

"Oh, stop, you!" She thumped the metal surface next to her, knowing it could barely be comparable to a love tap, if anything at all. "You've got work to do, big guy. Just keep me up to speed; I'm sure your super-advanced alien processors can handle a little multitasking." Bee's radio chirped in reply and she grinned, placing a small kiss on his cheek, followed by another thank you. She stumbled a little as she was gently returned to the roof, having to lean on Michael briefly to overcome a moment of vertigo.

Blinking back tears, she watched as Bumblebee hastened to change back into Camaro form and catch up with the Autobots. She was sure she saw the taillights flash in what she presumed to be a goodbye, then sighed, because he was gone. "Well… that was interesting," she said, before grimacing. What an understatement! Sheesh, but it was late, her brain didn't want to function for very much longer, and she really needed another shower. She wouldn't get any constructive thinking down until she had some sleep; and to be honest, Michael looked like he could use a nap, too. In fact, she was willing to bet her life's savings that they both looked like crap at that moment.

"Interesting isn't half of it. Geez! What a day."

"Wasn't it just?" They chortled softly together, then fell into a comfortable silence, just for a few minutes. "Well, I'm turning in. Can you get back alright?"

"Of course I can."

She blinked. "Think you can get off the roof?"

He sent her a patronizing look. "Yes."

"Without hurting yourself?"

Turning to face her fully, he took a menacing step forward, but Sam was undeterred. With a sigh, he flicked her nose, getting an indignant yelp. "Yes, without hurting myself, _mother_."

She beamed and pulled him in for a hug. Pecking his cheek, she grinned and swept back towards the window, not without throwing a, "See you around," and wave over her shoulder. "Call if you hear anything!"

Michael chuckled and shook his head. "You too!" he called after her, waiting until she was safely through the window. From the corner of his eye, he caught her blowing a raspberry at him, before the curtains snapped shut, preventing any retaliation from being seen. He rolled his eyes skyward, amused by her dual immaturity and maturity. Such a contradiction, that girl. But he'd had enough excitement for one day.

Now all he had to figure out was how to get down without alerting Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky and appearing as some stalker or pervert.

* * *

Sam thought that the day would finally be over now and she could get some rest, but no, Fate wanted to be a bitch. She'd gotten in the shower, her cell phone on the sink counter, just in case something _did_ happen — it would probably be on her person or very nearby for a good while, considering the predicament with aliens and their life-giving artifacts. She was halfway through rinsing the suds out of her hair when the most obnoxious pounding came from the door. And before she could bite out some sort of nasty remark, a voice resonated into the bathroom.

_"Samantha Witwicky, you have sixty seconds to turn yourself in or an agent will retrieve you. You are hereby under the custody of the U.S. government."_

It took her a moment to fully understand the ultimatum, but when she did, she felt an overwhelming rage curdle in the pit of her stomach. She was no fool; she knew what this was about. Had she expected anything less, really? Someone was sure to have seen her little tango with Barricade and a huge alien robot would definitely catch the attention of someone up in high places. But she was taking a shower, goddamn it! If they expected her to finish up in sixty seconds, they were dishing out some sort of mushroom at the White House and Pentagon.

Sticking her head out from around the shower curtain, she glared at the shut door. "Are you fucking crazy? What the fuck's wrong with you, I'm in the middle of a shower, I can't finish in sixty seconds!" A pause to catch her breath and sputter a little. "Give me five minutes, any sooner and you will never be able to contribute to the human gene pool again, perv! You hear me?!" As she yelled, she slithered an arm past the curtain and grabbed her cell; Michael probably should know.

**_To: Michael_**

**_From: Sam_**

**_govt goons here 2 snoop, lay low!_**

And it certainly didn't hurt that the phone tap was still active, so Bumblebee would know as well. She only had to wait a few moments before the cell buzzed quietly and she flipped it open to check the response.

**_To: Sam_**

**_From: Michael_**

**_yeah, i no, got me as i was leavin. am downstairs w/ rents. ur dog pissed on 1 of em, tho, just thought ud like 2 no_**

Well, that was something at least. But what was she supposed to tell them? 'Sorry, you just missed them. If you drive real fast, you might catch a glimpse of their taillights, but I doubt that, they are aliens, after all.' She knew what she had to do, though; distract them long enough so Bee and the others could get away. That was how they'd contribute. Her smirk was of grim self-resolve.

"Three minutes!"

"Got it, asshole," she grumbled, then proceeded to take the shortest and most dissatisfying shower she'd ever had in her life.

* * *

Three and a half minutes later — she'd managed to convince her 'guard' to give her an extra half a minute to brush her teeth — she trudged down the stairs with a man in uniform; she'd forgone any sort of touching up, too tired and pissed to care if anyone saw her big ass 'birthmark,' and simply wore the pajamas she'd laid out for herself, because she was not dressing up for these bastards. Her feet were cushioned by fuzzy slippers with lopsided bunny ears — just to piss their guests off. Her cell phone had been confiscated the moment she left the bathroom, hair dripping and tangled like nobody's business, head held high.

Upon reaching the living room, because she absolutely couldn't resist, she pivoted about and stood rigid in mock military form, giving him a one-fingered salute — and not with the pointer one either. Her sentiments expressed, she marched over to her parents, kissing their cheeks in greeting, waved at Michael, and calmed Mace, who was all raised hackles and bared teeth toward the trespassers — good dog, that's what he was trained to do — and was pleased to see that the 120 pound (all muscle, of course) canine had managed to unnerve them.

Getting a better grasp of the situation, Sam momentarily observed as agents bustled about, taking samples and testing for… radiation? _The fuck?_

"Samantha Witwicky, how gracious of you to join us!" Was this the leader? That shmuck? Oh dear, what was the world coming to! "Now, if you would just hold still…" She watched as a dark man — mid forties? — pointed a bulky meter at her. The meter itself chittered away, indicating a high level of whatever it was trying to measure. The agent gave a triumphant whoop and smirked at her. "Can't wash this stuff off, no! It lingers, I can practically smell it! Thought you'd get away with it, too, didn't you?"

Hands on her hips, she looked just as unimpressed as Michael and her parents — Judy was obviously trying not to tear heads off, because they were treading all over the place, in and out, the nerve! Sam knew she'd worked on that garden for weeks. Wonder if they'd noticed the 'bot footprints yet. "What's he jabbering on about?" she asked, and obviously not to the agent in question.

"Something about N.B.E.s and radiation," Michael answered with a shrug, eyes on the fellow who was rummaging through their set of DVDs.

"N.B.E.s?" she echoed.

"Non biological entities," the agent ground out. "Get with the program, would you? Agent Simmons by the way. So what do you know about N.B.E.s?" Was the man bipolar?

"You just missed 'em." She said it with such a straight face that everyone in the room paused. "Oh, for the love of…"

Ron swiftly interrupted whatever expletives would follow to ask bluntly, "Are we under arrest? Because if we are, we want lawyers. If not, get the hell out of this house!"

Simmons ignored him. "Why don't you come take a little ride with us? There is _much_ to discuss and it is of the utmost importance. You wouldn't want to withhold information that could be critical to the maintained safety of our country, would you?" He then turned to a minion, oh, wait, _agent_, and snapped, "Get the dogs," to said _agent's_ horror.

By all means, she would've liked to sit back and watch them _try_ to catch Mace — Mojo was cowering in a corner. Should she mention he had originally been a trained police dog? Couldn't go on missions, though, too aggressive. When he'd been put up for adoption, Sam had whipped out her best doe eyes and begged; Mace took to her almost immediately, and eventually to the entire family, as well. Great dog, good around kids, wary of strangers, very fast and with very sharp teeth.

A growl, and the agent cursed with dog duty hastily retreated. Sam sniggered; Mace snarled; agent whimpered. This was just _too _good.

"Oh–kay… forget the dogs, let's go." Simmons took mercy on the poor lad, having eyed the dog suspiciously as well. Not one to be messed with, that's for sure.

"Hey, hey, wait a second, at least let us call someone to watch them!" Ron protested, and against Simmons' better judgment (if he had any), they were permitted. It boiled down to: family emergency, house sit, take care of dogs. Luckily, the neighbor across the street knew how to do just that. That being the only loose end they were allowed to address, they were herded outside (Sam still in pajamas because she wasn't going to change for these morons) within the next fifteen minutes to a row of dark, unmarked SUVs, not cuffed, as they were _not_ under arrest. Teens in one, adults in the other. Sam just wished they hadn't been stuck with Simmons.

"So, about those N.B.E.s…" Simmons was turned around in his seat, intent to continue the interrogation that had begun in the house. When he got no reply, he then proceeded to recite _their_ obligations to U.S. of A., as if that would inspire them to talk. _Not a chance._

Sam yawned and shifted to get comfortable, slippers propped up on the center console between the two front seats. She just grinned, delighted to be irritating their captor, Agent Simmons. She'd never witnessed a grown man splutter so many times; must've been a record. Even when he spouted on about Sector Seven, a secret government association that meant absolutely nothing to Sam or Michael, they held their silence, only to make idle and painfully vague comments that could or could not mean something.

Sam was a bitch when she was tired, and she was damn proud, too.

The only problem was that she was too tired to realize a metal foot had abruptly descended onto the road in front of the SUV, making it jerk to a stop and give the passengers a rude wake up call.

* * *

_Indestructible_ by Disturbed.

_Your Guardian Angel_ by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus.

Both contributed by _Andrian Reid_.

Approximately 7600 words.

Sam is obviously sleep-deprived and pissy, but who can really blame her? She's had a bad day.

Sector Seven is a pain in the ass to portray.

Action picks up next chapter.

Four more days to vote on couples.

Any song suggestions very, very welcomed.

I'm going to bed.

_Riariti no Iru-jon_


	5. Chapter 5

_Title:_ All About Us

_Author:_ Riariti no Iru-jon

_Fandom:_ Transformers 2007 Movie-verse; AU

_Genre:_ Drama/Sci-fi

_Rating:_ T [for the time being]

_Warnings:_ Alternate universe; language [mostly Sam]; violence; some sexuality; crude humor; all around poor writing and unreliable updates; insane author; you get the picture

_Synopsis:_ Meet Samantha Witwicky, an ordinary teenager who's about to get her very first car. But she gets more than just a car — an adventure of a lifetime, a friendship to last beyond a lifetime, and a purpose to life as never imagined before. After all, there's nothing like big mean robots after your great-great-grandfather's glasses, is there?

* * *

[**All About Us**]

by [_Riariti no Iru-jon_]

Disclaimer: As stated in the original, I don't own Transformers or any associated materials. I have not a dime to my name — college is paid with federal grants, lovely things those are. So kindly refrain for legal action; I am merely indulging in twisted fantasies concocted by my sleep-deprived and math-riddled brain.

FYI, as usual, credit for lyrics, etc., will appear at the end of each chapter, if applicable. Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Recap:**

**_Can't a girl catch a break? Have I got a sign on my back that says, "Kick me while I'm down"? But I guess big shape changing robots from outer space is pretty cool. Except when they step on your mother's prized garden. And when they want to turn Earth's tech into more potentially hostile robots. So the Autobots need the glasses to stop that from happening? Okay, that's fine. I'll turn over the glasses. Just let me get a shower and some sleep! Demanding bastards._**

* * *

[_Chapter V: All Good Things Come To An End_]

Ch. Warnings: Language; minor violence; etc.

* * *

Sam seriously hoped the robotic leg planted in front of the SUV was an Autobot-leg, but she doubted it. It looked distinctly Decepticon, if one could tell the difference from appendage alone. God how she hoped it wasn't; the day had been bad enough as it was, there was no need to make it worse. At least it was night and the traffic was light, because this could turn out to be quite a mess, and fast. The driver, who recovered quickly, threw the vehicle into reverse and floored it; Sam felt like the little metal ball in a pinball machine, being jostled around so much.

Another appendage set down behind them and they plowed right into it, more than just denting the bumper; it looked like the back end had folded into itself. Definitely not Autobot, then. Glass shattered and metal bent with a whine of protest as a massive hand took hold of the roof and _lifted_. Sam, personally, was too stunned to scream, but Agent Simmons made up for it, until the roof gave above them and they started to _drop_. _That_ got her to scream, along with Michael and the driver. At least they were wearing their seatbelts. Small mercies, that.

Sam bit into her tongue as Michael's head collided with the window, shattering what was left of it. The driver was out cold, and Simmons was groaning, having hit his forehead on the dash during their rough encounter. The truck? Well, it had a permanent sunroof and would meet its maker in the very near future. The other vehicles hadn't been assaulted, so it was fair to say the target was in that particular truck. _Wonder who that was?_

Overhead was the daunting black and white Decepticon that was more familiar to Sam than she'd prefer. _Barricade. Shit._ His red optics had focused on her and she concocted a few plausible reasons for his appearance; one: he thought she still had the glasses, two: he knew she _didn't_ have the glasses and was going to torture her, three: he'd take her hostage and use her as a bargaining chip, four: he was going to kill them all, or five: a combination of those four. So, what were her options?

Apparently, she wasn't getting any, because there was suddenly a mounted cannon aimed at them and a cold voice that ordered, "Get out of the car."

_Yessir_. Sam didn't waste any time as she unbuckled the seatbelt and _vaulted_ out the door as best she could in bunny slippers. Michael and Simmons did the same, the latter having to struggle to remove the driver as well. And just in time, too, because as soon as they had cleared the vehicle, Barricade's cannon had powered up and released on the poor unsuspecting thing.

By this point, the accompanying Sector Seven agents had piled out of their respective vehicles and cocked their guns, aimed at Barricade, which was _stupid_, because he was a super advanced robot; gunshots were raindrops to this guy! If Sam didn't think her death would be coming in the next few minutes, she would've grabbed a gun and shot _herself_. At least the agents were making an effort to cover her parents, another small mercy. They had nothing to do with this and for them to get hurt… no, she'd do anything to make sure her family got out of this safely. Even if that meant surrendering herself.

As quickly as the agents had armed themselves, they had been relinquished of their weapons. The guns crumbled in Barricade's hand, just as the plating somewhere on his chest opened to eject a small figure — Frenzy, she reckoned, the little 'bot that needed to stick with decaf. Before it even hit the ground, Frenzy launched what appeared to be shuriken at over three-fourths of the agents, downing them in one go, buried into fleshy necks, while Barricade took care of the remaining cars without even looking; his gaze was narrowed on _her_. She was so dead!

… Might as well make the best of it, then!

"Yo, dude! Big guy, down here, with the peeps! Sorry, but you're a little late for the hand off! Prime and them have the glasses and are on the way right now to get the Cube, so you can just give it a rest, you know, with the whole 'terrorize the world' thing. We can, you know, have a sit down, drink a bit, your gang with petroleum, mine with beer, and talk about how life is so screwed up, like good ol' buddies; it'll be fun!"

"Yeah," Michael grumbled. "Fun like having teeth pulled without a local. Sounds great."

"D'you like karaoke? I know a place — hey, don't be like that! Point your cannon somewhere else, I'm trying to have a _productive_ and _mature_ conversation here! Okay, okay, so you don't like karaoke. How about the arcade? I bet you're good at video games. First-person shooters, yeah? Or racing? Give me something to work with, will you? This feels so one-sided and I'm trying to make a connection here, you know, a relationship? You just can't take and take and take, you've got to give some, too, unless you're into dysfunctional relationships, not quite my forte, but I'm game if you are! So what'cha think?"

"You are a bothersome human. I would kill you myself, but that pleasure is not mine. If you wish for your disgusting fleshy companions to live, you will surrender yourself immediately."

Sam huffed in faked annoyance; she was actually quite frightened to hear that ultimatum coming from the Decepticon himself. "Not gonna even buy me a drink first?" Her jaw shut quickly, however, when that cannon took aim at her parents; she waved her arms frantically. "Okay, okay! _Sorry_! I'm sleep deprived. I say stupid things when I'm tired! It's not their fault; if it's anyone's, it's mine, so take it out on me! I _did_ give the glasses to the Autobots, after all!"

"Sam," Michael enunciated slowly, moving to her side and gripping her shoulder tightly, which _hurt_ because it just happened to be the very same shoulder that had an up close and personal with shattered glass that previous day, thanks to Bumblebee and his high-pitched radio static at the car dealership, "What are you doing? Please tell me this is one of your silly ploys, because you are _not_ turning yourself over to that… _monster_."

"_Sam_!" This time it was her mother; it seemed like her parents had kept up with the dialogue, even if they didn't really understand what was going on. The remaining agents, however, prevented either of them from getting any closer than they already were, for which Sam was grateful. Hysterical parents didn't bode well with human-alien diplomacy. Except this wasn't really diplomacy at all, was it? It was outright defeat.

"You don't have the authority to negotiate with—" That was Simmons; Sam really wished Frenzy had taken him out with a shuriken. "—with the, err… N.B.E.s…" He wasn't too keen to finish that thought, however, when Barricade pointed his cannon at the Sector Seven agent. He just chuckled nervously, smartly deciding to keep his mouth shut; he wanted to live, after all.

Well, seeing as time was of the essence — Barricade looked as if to be on his last straw — Sam gave them a _very_ abridged version of what was happening. "My car's an alien on Earth with the Autobots, a.k.a. good guys, to keep the Decepticons, a.k.a. bad guys including mean and grumpy here, from turning all our technology against us with the power of the Cube. Capice? Great! Onward." She gave them the most earnest smile she could manage given the circumstances, then turned back to Barricade. "You let them leave unharmed and I'll come without a fight. Deal?"

"We make no deals with itty bitty humans!"

Sam did a double take before realizing Frenzy had spoken. He'd been busy retrieving his bloodied shuriken and admiring his work; they were rather impressive shots to make, actually. "Who are you calling itty bitty, munchkin? This is none of your business, I'm talking to _him_, not you. Go play in your baby robot seat!"

"Why, you—!"

"We haven't the time for this. You," Barricade lunged his hand forward, pinching her torso between two fingers and lifting her clear off the ground, "Are coming with me." He turned his cannon on the agents, Michael, and her family, oblivious to Sam's struggles and protests. "You will run like the worthless insects you are and _stay out of our way_." He emphasized his point by blasting a crater into the asphalt, incinerating several dead bodies and one unfortunate agent that stood too close.

Michael glowered up at the Decepticon, standing his ground even when the cannon repositioned itself in his direction. There were no weapons in the direct proximity, the remains of the vehicles too devastated to provide anything makeshift. Despite the surge of adrenaline, he knew there was little he could do to injure Barricade.

The cannon lifted and discharged, shocking everyone and obliterating a stray car that got too close for comfort. The occupants were killed immediately. "Run or you will _die_." That finally got them to _move_.

"No, Sam! _Sam_!" Judy again. "I won't leave my daughter!"

"Michael, get my parents out of here!" Sam's shout became a wheeze as the fingers tightened. She felt a rib crack under the pressure and rolled her eyes back in pain. Her vision was beginning to swim and she could no longer find her breath; she went limp in the brutal grasp of the enemy and waited for it to be over.

Michael didn't like running away; he did not like 'leaving a man behind,' as they said. But what choice did he really have? Six foot tall human against a sixteen/seventeen foot tall alien robot? No, Sam was right. The best he could do was to get everyone to safety. If that meant running away, then so be it. Turning on his heel, he sprinted to the Witwicky's and helped Ron tug Judy away.

"What's going on? What is that thing?" Mr. Witwicky demanded as they went in the opposite direction of Barricade, wanting to know _why_ they were letting some monster leave with Sam. And it had better be a damn good reason, too!

"No time! Just run!" So they ran. Once at what could be considered a safe distance, Michael turned around just in time to see Barricade hunker down to become the police cruiser, Sam in a brief freefall as she plummeted towards it. For a breathtaking moment, he thought she would impact with the top of the car, but she didn't. Instead, Barricade kept the roof conveniently out of way, so that she presumably fell into the backseat, before the transformation completed and he took off, Frenzy in the front passenger's seat.

Michael watched the taillights until the dark of night shrouded the view, then marched to Simmons and took him by the collar, dragging him forward till they were practically nose-to-nose. "You see that there? That was a seventeen-year-old girl saving your ass. If you have a shred of humanity in you, then you will call for backup, chase that cruiser down, and find a way to save her. Only fair, don't you think?"

"Listen, kid," Simmons said, hands up in a placating gesture. "Sector Seven will do everything in its power to get Ms. Witwicky back. But," he carefully disengaged himself from the fuming teen's grip. "But first I need to know what you know. Then we can come up with a plan. Got it?"

"Fine," Michael spat, shoving away from the field agent. "At least give me my cell phone. I know someone who can help."

Simmons looked from the kid, to the cars, then back. "Err, I'm afraid that's not possible. You see, all the evidence was in the trucks, so…"

The driver had long since regained consciousness and held up his cell. "I recorded _everything._"

"Give it," ordered Michael, not waiting for a response as he sprung forward to snag the small device away. "Mr. Witwicky, I need your cell number. They should be monitoring your phones as well as Sam's."

**To: Ronald Witwicky**

**From: Michael Banes**

**_I know you guys are keeping an eye on these. Barricade ambushed us and took Sam. Need help ASAP!_**

* * *

Something was wrong, off, _not right_. The glasses had sent them towards Colorado, coordinates indicating the Cube, the Allspark, was somewhere submerged. Except water couldn't dampen energon radiation, so they should have been able to detect it, even from a considerable distance. There should have at least been a _smidgeon_ of radiation, faint and hard to read, but there nonetheless. It wasn't. Which meant they were back at square one.

"Humans must have found it and relocated it," Optimus mused, unable to disguise the heavy disappointment in his voice. They didn't have time for a grid search or anything of the like. "Most likely at a military compound or research facility. I believe it's time we regroup and reassess. This won't be as easy as I had hoped."

"What now, Optimus?" asked Jazz, rolling to a stop beside their leader. "We have nothing to go on."

"You know, humans have this incredible and fascinating network of information they call the Internet. Perhaps that would be a good as any place to start," the medic said.

"Though I don't condone the invasion of privacy, I believe we have no other choice. Use whatever means necessary to access their top-secret files. I trust you to use your discretion accordingly."

It was then, just as they were about to begin their investigation, that a message got through their firewalls, carrying chilling news: Sam had been taken by Decepticons.

Bumblebee made a small whining noise, engine revving restlessly as he contacted his teammates via the Autobots' internal comms. _"I must go back, Optimus. It was my responsibility to protect—"_

"I know Bumblebee. Perhaps it would've been safer if the children came with us, but at the time… We didn't want to expose them to any more danger, but it seems like our absence has only done just that. Go to them, but return as soon as you are able to. A storm is brewing; we'll need all the help we can get."

With that, Bumblebee did a spectacular one-eighty and shot off not unlike a bullet back in the direction they'd come.

* * *

Well… that hadn't been one of her brighter moments. Note to self: don't piss off hostile alien robots with cannons. She was sprawled out in the backseat of the Saleen, bruised and in pain. Barricade wasn't being especially careful driving, taking corners too fast and at too sharp angles, tossing her around like a rag doll. She wouldn't be surprised if she had a concussion along with the myriad of bruises. It took all her self control not to vomit all over the interior — would that really be so bad? No, she really didn't want Barricade angrier than he already was. So long as he pulled over soon, she'd spare his nice seats from any regurgitation.

Sam was personally too tired to do more than cling for her life as they barreled down back roads; at least, she thought they were back roads — she hadn't managed yet to sit up so she could glance out a window. Where they were going, she didn't know, but she was willing to bet that wherever it was, it wouldn't bode well for her. All she could really do was wait and pray. Now would be a good time for some R and R — after all, you're not supposed to go to sleep with a concussion. As if she had a choice.

The up side was that her parents were out of danger for the time being and that Optimus had a head start to the Cube. And they'd maintain that head start, too, if Sam had anything to do with it. Just because she was a captive didn't mean she couldn't fight back. So with a disturbing little grin, she closed her eyes and began to plot, ignoring the fact that her antics could very well get her killed.

* * *

It had been a long time since Bumblebee had felt such overpowering worry. He'd _known_ that the humans would stand a better chance at surviving if they were with them, but the issue of the organics getting in the way of their vital mission had overruled all concern for their safety. And now they were paying the price — Sam, kidnapped by a Decepticon, to be tortured, killed? Neither were great options and Bee couldn't quite decide which he'd prefer: Sam alive, but in terrible agony being tortured, or Sam dead, spared from the inflicted pain. Both hurt his spark; hopefully he'd be able to reach them in time.

While on the road, he constructed a reply to Michael: _**Bumblebee here; on my way.**_ Short and to the point, but something was nagging at him, so he added: _**What happened?**_ And hoped he would respond in a prompt manner. The more he knew, the better chance he had at finding and saving Sam. Michael was an intelligent human; he probably was aware of the statistics concerning kidnappings, which were generally universal on whatever planet you were on. The longer they were missing, the less likely they were to survive. He couldn't let that happen to Sam.

* * *

Simmons had backup there for them in record time and they scrambled into the newly arrived vehicles almost before they fully stopped. Once belted in, he turned back to Michael. "So this Cube they told you about can animate Terran technology, as well as create more… Autobots, is that what you called them?"

"And Decepticons," Michael reminded. "They are factions of a single species. Depending who has the Cube, they can expand their troops; needless to say, no one wants the Decepticons getting their hands on it." He paused to carefully consider the montage of emotions on Agent Simmons' face. He didn't seemed as shocked as one would expect, more thoughtful if anything, as if suddenly a puzzle previously unsolved made sense. "Wait, wait, wait." He shifted in his seat to lean forward. "You know something about this, don't you."

Simmons made a thoughtful humming noise, peering at the teen speculatively, as if trying to deduce if he was trustworthy, if he could _handle_ the truth. But then again, the kid had just told him all about the Autobots and Decepticons, and even a little of the background on Cybertron. If what the kid was saying was true and Decepticon forces were aiming at world domination via the Cube, then they'd need all the help they could get. And really, what did he have to lose? If the brat gave them any trouble, it'd be easy to get him a one-way ticket to prison. Cue evil cackle.

"You could say we have extensive resources at our disposal. A boxlike object was found in Colorado in the early 1900s. It was quickly determined it wasn't terrestrial in origin and gave off peculiar radiation readings—"

"You know where the Cube is!"

Simmons gave him a nasty scowl. "I can't say either way; how am I to know if it's the Cube your alien buddies are looking for? It's not like we've gotten a chance to sit down and compare notes."

Michael responded with his own glare. "How many weird cubes from space have you heard of? Just that one? Then I bet it's the same Cube Optimus Prime is looking for. So how about you do your country a favor and give them the damn thing? Here, I can even call them, give them a rendezvous point. You can hand it over and they can make sure our world isn't overrun by renegade laptops and microwaves. Have you ever met a pissy blender? I haven't and I don't want to anytime soon!"

"Hey, hey, now wait a minute. Just _hand over_ a piece of alien technology that we have barely scratched the surface of? The scientific discoveries—"

"—Won't matter one damn bit if the human race is wiped out. Look, it's our best bet at survival. If you don't do this, you could condemn us all. How would you like your epitaph to read 'catalyst of apocalypse' or something morbid like that? That won't look good on the record, would it?"

"Tell me, where's your proof of alien invasion to begin with? Huh? How about that? We can't go to war if there's no war."

"That bastard took Sam and killed your people! Isn't that proof enough? And — oh, look at that…" Michael brandished the agent's cell phone he'd borrowed to contact the 'bots. "We've got a response. Bumblebee's coming."

"Bumblebee?"

"The Camaro. Try to keep up, will you? Now shut up, he wants to know what happened."

**_A non-government agency picked us up; Sector Seven, have you heard of them? Anyway, Barricade came out of nowhere and pretty much threatened us. He blew up a good chunk of the agents, but was merciful enough to let the rest of us escape, so long as Sam turned herself in. Sam, being Sam, complied. They know you have the glasses. Any luck with those, by the way?_**

Flipping the cell closed, he gazed sternly at Simmons. "Okay, you have a very important choice to make and you need to make it fast: are you going to help or not? 'Cos if you aren't—"

"Alright, alright. Big guy needs the Cube, fine. We'll get the Cube. Hell, we'll help them protect the damn thing against the Decepticons, or whatever the fuck they're called. Tell them we'll meet them at the base, whatever, just get this over with already."

Michael tutted. "Pushy, pushy. But I'm glad you finally see it my way. Otherwise, things would've got a little messy." He consulted the phone again, eyebrows pinched. "Well." He reread the message, glanced at Simmons, then back at the phone. "Okay. Well, apparently the glasses were a dead end. We'll need to send the coordinates to the base. Latitude and longitude, you know?"

Grumbling, Simmons took the phone from him and punched in the approximate coordinates; or, at least, the coordinates his Palm gave: latitude 36°01'N and longitude 114°44'W. All they needed was a big red X and the words "Cube is Here" posted and they'd be in business, he mused sardonically to himself. He gave it back so Michael could finish up, then looked ahead of them, wondering just how he managed to get himself in these sorts of situations. He really needed to get a new job.

* * *

"Ow!" Sam was thrust from her contemplations as the police cruiser skidded to a stop and practically ejected her from the back seat, the sound of shifting metal filling the space. She rolled a few yards before she stabilized herself, glaring at the Decepticon. Well, she presumed she was glaring at the Decepticon. It was far too dark for her to tell for sure, but considering that something huge was blocking out the stars, it was a reasonable assumption. Oh wait. She was in a building; _that's_ why she could see the stars. Abandoned, not unlike the one Bumblebee had taken them to meet the Autobots, but not the same one. That would be too easy.

With a groan, she struggled to her knees, an arm wrapped around her chest in a vain attempt to ease the pain in her ribcage. She winced and carefully maneuvered herself as she made to stand up. Alas, but it was not to be! She had barely got to her feet when something small barreled into her and knocked her back on the ground. Three guesses who _that_ was. Frenzy, that bastard.

Now flat on her back with a vertically stunted robot on her gut, luminescent blue eyes the only source of light (it did wonders to illuminate those spindly claws, which flexed menacingly at his sides), Sam decided she was in a shit load of trouble. Not only was she injured and outnumbered; she had two angry, _evil_ alien robots wanting a piece of her. She couldn't believe her luck — or lack thereof. She just had yet to decide which one scared her more. Sadistic Skinny or Brooding Hulk.

Red eyes turned on her, but Barricade addressed Frenzy instead. His words chilled her to the bone: "Do not let her escape. And make her suffer for her misdeeds against the High Protector." There was a pause. "Do not kill her. She will be a gift for Megatron when he returns."

_Oh shit._ Not that she expected anything different, but still; it was going to happen. And like hell if they thought she'd go down without a fight. Making to dislodge Frenzy, she lashed out at the small robot, getting a foot under him to kick him off. She heard heavy footsteps retreating and knew that she would soon be in the mercy of Sadistic Skinny; with a growl, she planted the bottom of her shoe into his 'gut' area and propelled him off. All she really knew was that she had to get away or she'd be in a whole lot more pain that she already was.

Breaths coming as harsh hisses between clenched teeth, Sam made to crab-crawl away. But Frenzy had just bounced back, almost completely unfazed by her retaliation, and skittered after her, easily able to catch up, as she hadn't made it far to begin with.

An ominous whistle of air and Sam gave an inhuman shriek, just shy of convulsing at the horrible, indescribable pain that consumed her, when what she distantly realized was shuriken had impaled her hand against the ground, the alien alloy easily cutting through skin and piercing the concrete. She tried to curl up on herself as Frenzy lunged, forcefully pinning her other hand and stabbing another shuriken through it. A claw dug into her shoulder, in the exact place of the glass wound; it was too much.

Concussion or not, she succumbed to darkness and welcomed it wholeheartedly. She _really_ needed some sleep!

When she came to, the first thing that registered was the pain, naturally. Her entire body felt inflamed and she was ridiculously weak. _Probably from blood loss_, she thought idly through the heavy fog of her mind. By the constant jostling her wounded body was experiencing, she distantly figured they were on the road again. In the front seats, Frenzy and Barricade were holding a conversation in voices comparable to nails on a chalkboard. They weren't paying any attention to her, but sounded… excited? Well, that couldn't be anything good.

She shifted in hopes to relieve some of the pressure on her bruised ribs, eyes fluttering as she became more aware of her surroundings — and equally aware of her own injuries. She ignored the itty-bitty fact that it was nearing dawn, considering the splatter of color across the early morning sky, and took stock of the situation. Only then did she realize something notably disturbing: she could only see out of one eye.

_That_ got her panicking. Ignoring the persistent aching of her hands — which she vaguely noted were bandaged with strips of what she'd later identify as her pajama bottoms — and groped at her face. Her fingers met moist cloth and she tugged at it frantically, hoping against hope that her one eyed blindness was because of the cloth itself, probably placed to stem the flow of a head wound or something of that sort, except that when she finally tore it away, blinking rapidly, her vision blurred as her brain tried to mesh the two different images: one clear as it should, the other… grey and fuzzy.

Well… _shit_. Frenzy hadn't taken the 'make her suffer' lightly. At least the pain was indistinguishable from that motherfucking migraine… which could be a reason for the visual anomaly, except that, well, she had the distinct gut-sinking hunch that it was her actual eye that was the problem, not the migraine.

Shuddering, she curled up as best she could, mindful of the other injuries Frenzy undoubtedly inflicted upon her. If she got out of this alive, she'd been in for months of physical therapy, because there was _no_ way her hands were working anytime soon, if the partial numbness slash tingling had anything to say about it. Shit. Shit, shit, shit…

Aiming a kick to the back of the driver's seat, only in mid swing did she think twice. She wasn't in any state to put up a fight, so she sighed in defeat and tried to get as comfortable as possible, which wasn't much, because she hurt all over. The way she saw it, the only thing she could really do was conserve her strength, be compliant towards her captors, and sink into that precarious mental place where she could evade the pain that threatened to strangle the will out of her body.

_God_, she hoped the others were all right. Hoped Michael had gotten her parents out of harm's way, that he wouldn't do something stupid that would harm himself. Hoped the Autobots would find the Cube and send the Decepticons packing. Hoped Bumblebee would survive the battle that loomed on the horizon. Hoped, but didn't expect, she'd live through this so she could finish high school, go to college, be the person always wanted to be. Hoped, but didn't expect anything. Not at this point.

She drifted off again, unaware that Barricade had intercepted the texts sent by Michael, most significantly the one with the coordinates of the Cube.

* * *

Bumblebee was skeptical about just how motivated the so called Sector Seven was to rescue Sam, but, loathe he was to admit it, he had little choice but to detour to the Hoover Dam base. Despite his reservations, it _was_ the best way to help her. On a lighter note, he wasn't quite sure how Michael had convinced these secret agents to relinquish the Cube, but there was little doubt that it would be an amusing story. Not that there was anything _amusing_ about the current events.

He kept correspondence open with both Michael and the Autobots, all the while constantly scanning for any potential Decepticon activity, even nearing dawn, with the likelihood of Sam still being alive declining with every passing minute.

* * *

Sam remembered the last time she'd felt so much pain. 8th grade, after school track practice. The coach had been an Ass, with a capital A. She'd pushed them so very hard, especially with the upcoming meet and tournament. And Sam had wiped out, mangling her foot; Coach Boeing hadn't cared about broken bones — she cared about winning, at whatever cost. And Sam, not one to give up, sucked up the pain for the next week and a half, spending all her free time with her foot in a bucket of ice water to numb the pain away, mentally preparing herself for the agony that was bound to take her.

Surprisingly enough (or not), she'd come in third place, their school ranking two out of a dozen or so from all over the state. Needless to say that after that shebang, Sam quit the team and limped home to nurse her festering wounds. Her parents had been so utterly _pissed_ when they learned she'd been limping around on a broken foot for over ten days and had just competed in a race, of all things. The sports medicine doctor clunked his tongue and shook his head and put her in a boot until they could schedule her for surgery to try and fix the extensive damage done.

There was mention of how, considering the circumstances, she could very likely develop arthritis in her foot, though she had only a very little nerve damage. How she managed to avoid that was beyond her comprehension; there was the occasional twinge, but nothing outstanding enough to require medical intervention. The recovery process had been grueling, physical therapy, careful exercising, to get her back on her feet — no pun intended.

But the experience had left her with a unique perspective about pain; it didn't have to control her life. Mind over matter, and the like. Light self-hypnosis and meditation had done it for her, so it was these techniques that she gradually guided her mind away from the distracting pain, falling into a shallow contemplative state. There wasn't much she could do at the moment besides wait. At least the road wasn't as bumpy; perhaps they were on a highway. Because, really, who would question the presence of a cop car?

Eventually, she found the strength to heave herself up into a sitting position, though she ended up leaning heavily on the door. She gazed outside, getting a better idea of where they were; fortunately, Las Vegas was easy to recognize, even on the outskirts. They seemed to be headed in a southward direction, but who was she to say so in her condition? Speaking of which… at least she wasn't in as much pain. Okay, take that back. She was still in the same amount of pain, she'd just adjusted to it so that it wasn't nearly as debilitating.

Gingerly manipulating the cloth around her hands with her teeth, she set about a makeshift exam. As she'd expected, her hands were torn up, but the bleeding was negligible, at the most. Still, she didn't feel like pressing her luck. It was quite a feat of mobility that she was able to snag the leg of her pajamas with her teeth, as she'd done with the bandages, and tore out relatively blood-free strips to reattach to her wounds. She left her eye alone, unwilling to risk making it worse… and perhaps still floundering a bit in her personal pool of denial.

She scoped out the rest of her body and was relieved to find that the rest of her injuries were for the most part superficial. She suspected she had a sprained ankle and her hip ached something nasty, as if it had been dislocated and incorrectly put back in place. Or, at least, that's how she'd describe it. Otherwise, she was basically one big bruise. Even her bruises had bruises. The scrapes were just the icing on top of the cake. _Fuck, girl. You look like you went partying with Death, except Death got bored and decided to leave you paralyzed in the middle of a busy intersection. Damn it._

Her abdominals were complaining and it took her a minute to comprehend exactly why they were doing so. _How embarrassing!_ She peered warily at Sadistic Skinny, who was puttering around with a computer console that was where the passenger airbag was supposed to be. She then looked at the driver's seat and was momentarily startled to see it occupied. _Oh, well _that's _interesting. He's a little transparent though._

"Nice trick. If it weren't for the static, you'd almost pass for a real human," she rasped, her voice still scratchy from her previous screaming. She paused. Through the rear view mirror, she could tell that the holo-person hadn't even looked back at her. "But let me tell you something about real humans," she continued, slowly gaining back her usual spunk. "We consume sustenance on a regular basis. Our bodies take that sustenance and breaks it down into sugars and carbs and the like. What isn't used for nutrition is shipped south to be evacuated in a timely manner. With me so far?"

There was no answer. But who was she kidding? She hadn't expected one in the first place. She just needed to impress on him how important it was that she took care of her business, like, within the next twenty minutes or so.

"You know, getting rid of waste and stuff. Proper etiquette would be to allow guests access to some sort of receptacle. Even prisoners get to use the john. And I'll come out with it as bluntly as I can — I need a potty break. I highly doubt you want my bodily excretion all over your interior. Pain in the ass to get out of the upholstery and very unhygienic, you know? I mean, I'm not picky, just a deserted side road and some bushes and I'll be good."

Silence. Sam pursed her lips, but regretted the action, the chapped flesh protesting even at the slightest expression. The corners of her mouth were cracked; her tongue felt like sand. She could still smell her own blood, dried though it was. And she'd be smelling something else soon, too, if Barricade didn't fucking hurry up and make a decision! She was getting really uncomfortable, enough that she tacked on a strangled, "Please? It's not like I'm going to run off or anything. I'm in no condition for that." Still nothing.

She narrowed her eyes. "Okay, listen. I'm about to shit my pants. I'll drop 'em and squat in your nice leather seats and I can assure you, it won't be pretty. Can you imagine shit in your gears? Under your armor? Gumming your cannon? Doesn't sound fun, does it? Well, I'm getting desperate and if you don't pull over, say, right about now, I won't hesitate to—" She didn't finish as the Saleen swerved to the side, nearly causing a massive taffic accident, but more importantly, throwing her around the back seat, her head narrowly missing a collision of its own with a tinted window.

Barricade came to an abrupt halt and Sam found herself for the second time flung directly out of the seat; at least this time she landed on semi-soft earth and not concrete. The Decepticon had veered right off the highway, to a small cluster of bushes that had seen better days and barely came up to her hip.

"Make it quick," the Saleen snarled through his voice processors, engine idling as she scrambled for the cover of the bushes. Well, _this_ was utterly embarrassing; her relieving herself mere feet from an evil alien robot. If Milli were here, she'd get a kick out of that; probably write something about it too.

Sam took care of her business, inwardly thankful her abdominal cramps had indeed been from her intestines and not her more feminine parts. That just proved she was naturally a bitch. A good-natured bitch, sure, but a bitch nonetheless. There was probably still a week before natural bitchiness became hormone-induced homicidal bitchiness. Decepticons sure lucked out on _that_. A week later and they'd have to face the full-blown wrath of a menstruating teenager. Even _she'd_ steer clear of herself during those episodes if it were at all possible. Unfortunately, she was a little stuck with herself.

Leaves didn't make good toilet paper, she concluded as she climbed back into the cruiser. Not bothering with the seatbelt, she huddled down, feet propped up on the door, and decided to catch some Z's. Though she was unaware, they'd soon be reaching the Nevada-Arizona border, where a force of Decepticons were waiting for them.

* * *

Michael stood on top of Hoover Dam, staring down its massive walls. Sector Seven was being particularly stubborn about the Cube, insisting they _negotiate_ and talk terms with the Autobots before they turned over the piece of alien technology. Unfortunately, Optimus had yet to arrive, although Bumblebee had appeared just shortly after they, themselves, reached the dam. He'd learned some very interesting things as they waited. For one, Bumblebee could make a hologram of himself. God, _that_ had startled him.

It didn't seem to matter what form the Camaro was in; he was still as mute as ever. So conversation was little one-sided, not like they were discussing anything important anyways, as they both shied from sensitive topics, such as Decepticons and the fact that they had Sam. It was in that that they found something in common with each other: they were both worried for girl.

"It's bad, isn't it," Michael murmured quietly, hands in his pockets. He didn't know how these Decepticons treated their prisoners, but they were both fairly confident that they had ever had a human prisoner before. Perhaps that would make them a little more careful… or not.

Bee simply inclined his head, blonde fringe falling into his face. Michael had freaked when at first he'd been approached by a stunning, busty brunette with rich cocoa skin [1]. It had taken some sloppy attempts of charades for him to catch on, but by that time, Bee had abandoned that avatar for something more characteristic of his robot self. Male, for one. Blonde hair the color of his armor and inhumanly blue eyes. The yellow and black tee with a bumblebee logo was a good give-away, also.

Bumblebee's alt-form was in the base, but the scout had figured Michael could use the company; after all, he was Sam's friend. Though he couldn't speak, a strong and steady presence seemed to do the teen a bit of good. Silent support was often the best way to go about things. And they were in the same boat, really, as the human saying went. Someone they cared for was in mortal danger and they could do nothing about it.

"Sam's strong, though," the car savvy teen said, as if saying it made it so, reassuring, confirming. "She's a survivor. She'll be okay." Words, hopeful, wishing, and with luck, not empty. Then silence. In minutes, Optimus would be there and then they could finally get to work. Unbeknownst to them, with it came a battle.

* * *

[1] _Fact: Bumblebee's holomatter avatar _is _a female in the cartoon. Also fact: this will be the only instance in this fic that his avatar is female._

Mini-rant ahead! After consulting the movie timeline on the Transformers Wiki, I discovered some interesting inconsistencies. Megatron is found in the late 1800s in the Arctic Circle; Captain Witwicky happens upon him and incidentally activates his navigation systems, engraving the location of the Cube on his glasses. Capice? The Cube is discovered in 1913 _underwater_ in Colorado. So wouldn't the coordinates on the glasses indicate the Cube was _there_? 1969, Megatron and the Cube are moved to the base at Hoover Dam at the same time _Ghost 1_ is launched into space. _Ghost 1_ apparently contains the knowledge of Megatron's location on Earth and is intercepted by the Autobot ship _Ark_ and Decepticon ship _Nemesis_. Awesome. Problem: was said location the _original_ location, e.g. Artic Circle and Colorado, or the Hoover Dam base that they were moved to? In movie, Frenzy stowed away with Mikaela to the Hoover base and found Megatron that way. He then transmitted his data to the other Decepticons. So it seems that neither the glasses nor _Ghost 1_ had the current location for either. If _Ghost 1_ did have that information, they wouldn't have needed the glasses and could've gone straight to the Dam. Did they, or did they not? Presumably, after Bumblebee was defrosted at the base, he could've transmitted his location to the Autobots, because the glasses certainly _didn't_ point to Hoover Dam.

Did that make any sense?

By the way, Jazz _will_ die at the end of this fanfic. However, as it says on Wiki, he'll be rebuilt by Ratchet and become a main player again! For whatever reason, that didn't happen in the movie-verse. Cheers, my readers! Jazz will be alive and kicking for my _Revenge of the Fallen_. Squee!

Note: I've made Simmons not so much of an asshole, because he's better suited for comic relief, in my opinion. And I can picture him and Sam exchanging jibes while Jazz commentates. Heh.

_Riariti no Iru-jon._


End file.
